


please come home for christmas

by ennaih (aquandrian)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, I had to do it, Light BDSM, Lots of Music, Sex Toys, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Underwear Kink, another Mendo AU yep, as in men wearing women's underwear, lots of Aussie references, lots of lights, no Christian or Catholic references, rapturous romanticism, shameless domestic fantasy, smoking and swearing cos Mendo, sorry but that's a thing, this is as close to xReader as i get
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 15:02:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 42,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13250712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquandrian/pseuds/ennaih
Summary: Christmas in three cities across the world.





	1. where the lovelight gleams

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning: this fic features his kids. Which I realise is squicky, it squicked me out too which is why they're written as anonymously as possible. But there is no fricken way I am writing Mendo spending Christmas away from his kids cos that's too desperately sad and I won't have it.
> 
> Please note when Australians say "thongs", they mean "flip flops." Don't ask me, we're perfectly normal, it's the rest of the world that's weird. Also, in case you need to be told, [the word ‘dag’](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dag_\(subculture\)) is Australian/New Zealand slang “often used as an affectionate insult for someone who is, or is perceived to be, unfashionable, lacking self-consciousness about their appearance and/or with poor social skills yet affable and amusing. It is also used to describe an amusing, quirky and likeable person (as in, ‘He's a bit of a dag’) and is non-pejorative.” Mendo is frequently a complete dag.
> 
> If you need reminding, this is the Faulkner tee:
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Much much thanks to vell1chor who fielded my random questions like "Hey, what's your favourite casual outfit of his that he could wear to a casual dinner with friends? Send me a pic if you can." And who provided a lot of little suggestions/ideas that made their way into this epic Christmas tale. And who rubbed her hands in fiendish glee every time I wailed with despair about the increasing wordcount.
> 
> Title specifically refers to the Eagles' cover of the song because it's so poignant and pretty.
> 
> This is a long one. So settle in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from _I'll Be Home For Christmas_.

_— new york —_

The snow is coming down when she arrives. It’s a blast of icy wind cutting through the grotty underpass of the Delta terminal. “Oh my god. Oh my god,” she yells at him when he pulls up and leaps out of his four wheel drive, grinning at her like a demented silver elf. “It is so cold!”

“Course it fucken is! Give me that, get in -- oh my god, hello,” he remembers to say and hugs her hard through her big winter coat. He’s so warm and real, all rugged up in black wool jacket and black trousers. She wants to bury her cold face against his throat and hold onto him. But the airport traffic guys are glaring at them and there are so many cars lined up, there’s no time.

There’ll be time later.

It was his idea to do Christmas in New York, just long enough to see the festive sights. And now he’s all excitement and sparkling eyes and chatter as they wrestle her bags into the car, talking at her as he drives them away from the airport. Still thrumming with adrenaline, she tells him about the flight, about the food and the movies she watched. And like they haven’t been apart for three weeks, they get into a fairly heated argument about what a Tarantino version of Batman would look like. 

“That’s bullshit!” he exclaims. “It would -- look, I agree that nothing will ever be better than the Burton version --”

“Damned fucken right. God, we’re old.”

“Yes, yes, yes -- excuse you, I’m not,” he interrupts himself, making her giggle. “But that’s not the point, is it? The point is that -- do not roll your eyes at me, I swear to god --”

She laughs uproariously, thoroughly enjoying herself. The passing streetlights catch the glinting blue silver of his eyes as he grins across at her. “The point fucken is” -- he takes one hand off the wheel to reach for hers -- “that Tarantino is completely going to make it his own and it’s going to be like nothing we could imagine. I reckon the fact that --” she gives him her hand, watching with a smile as he kisses the back of it. He rants on with occasional snarls at other drivers and asking her if she’s too cold and should he turn the heating up? 

She assures him she’s perfectly warm which is true on so many levels because watching him, being with him is like being in sunshine again. It’s like she forgets every now and then how beautiful he is, the shapes of his face, the crinkles by his eyes when he smiles, the line of his nose and the forceful expressiveness of him. The tache is back, his little telltale sign of no publicity commitments, making him look that little bit feral. As she relaxes into the seat, enjoying the warmth of her coat and the car, she’s distracted by the glittering skyline rise beyond him.

“Wait,” she interrupts, “why are we going into the city? Aren’t we --”

“Nope,” he says cheerfully, palming the wheel. “I thought we’d drive up tomorrow. Stay the night in the city -- I booked us into a hotel, you’ll like it” -- he flicks her a slightly smug look -- “and we’ll drive up tomorrow.”

“Gosh,” she murmurs, widening her eyes at him. “Look at you being all organised.”

He wrinkles his nose. “I know, right?”

The hotel seems perfectly ordinary from the outside as they get out and the doorman assures them the bags will be sent up. Jetlag heavy in her bones, she huddles in her coat, watching and dozing a little on her feet, as he gives his keys to the valet. There are flakes of snow drifting down, unpleasantly wet on her face, the air so bitterly cold. She knows dimly that she’s in New York, that she should be awed and excited and whatever. But really --

He turns to her. “Babe. Come on.”

One step inside makes it immediately clear why he chose this hotel. The foyer is a dazzle of Christmas silver and white that completely takes her breath away -- golden chandeliers overhead, and before them a forest of red baubles and icy glitter branches arching up and over to form an avenue to the lifts. “Ohhh,” she says weakly, which makes him laugh under his breath. His hand cupping her elbow, she wanders under the tall sprays of delicate glowing white, totally entranced. “It’s magical …”

“Mm.” He grins at her, such clever blue eyes, the silver light picking out the silver in his hair, and tugs her into the lift. Without hesitation and with a sort of deep relief, she goes into his embrace. Arms around his waist, aware of the possessive way he holds her. In the small private moment as the lift goes up, she gets to close her eyes and put her nose into the warm hollow of his collarbones just where his tee pulls down. “Babe,” he murmurs into her hair, his hands big and secure on the shape of her back, all his warmth surrounding her.

The hotel room is a haze of dim golden and ivory textures, the air holding the shadow of his cologne. She has barely enough energy to notice the little glowing tealights on the table, wanting only to flop face first into the wide high bed. “I should have a shower,” she groans as he takes her satchel. Her bags have mysteriously arrived before them but she can’t stand the thought of unpacking anything right now.

“Go on.” He nudges her gently. 

In the melting heat of the shower, she wishes for a moment he’d join her. No, later. 

There’ll be time for that later. 

When she emerges in the fluffy hotel bathrobe, entirely ready for bed, he looks up from his phone and gestures at the low table. 

“Oh god, you’re wonderful,” she says. He’s ordered food, a good old-fashioned club sandwich and shoestring fries. She leans her wet head against his shoulder as she eats and he reads bits of news from Vulture to her. Every now and then she feeds him a fry, watching him lick his lips. The room is so quiet, a glowing weirdly intimate space scattered with his clothes and travel things. Again she dimly senses the intimidating city beyond the white floorlength drapes. But that’s out there, and they’re in here together alone. It’ll be all right. 

She eats, listening to the lovely richness of his voice if not the actual words. Kisses him lightly and without thinking, salt on her lips and the slight rasp of his tache. It’s a chaste moment, maybe his breath quickens. But he only touches his thumb to her chin, returns the butterfly kiss before he goes back to reading.

He gives her his Faulkner tee to sleep in. And carefully doesn’t watch when she sheds the robe. This doesn’t escape her notice, in fact rouses a slightly evil impulse in her when they’re lying together in the dark, face to face, breath to breath. “Hey,” she whispers, and he wriggles a little closer, the furnace heat of his body touching hers under the covers.

“Mm?”

“I’m so tired …”

“I know, baby.” He kisses the tip of her nose. “Go to sleep.”

“So you don’t wanna make out?”

He chuckles deep in his throat. “Not if you’re gunna fall asleep halfway through. Go to sleep, you little idiot.”

“Not little,” she mumbles, eyes shut, already half unconscious. “Don’call me baby, I bite you.”

“Tomorrow,” he murmurs. His mouth is very light.

____________

 

The next morning she wakes of her own accord, slowly coming into awareness of his arm heavy across her waist and his face pressed against the base of her throat. It’s a weirdly pleasant thing to be partly trapped below his weight. Half dreaming, she thinks about what that means, why she likes it. Is it a possession thing, does it say more about her need to be claimed or does it say more about some defect in his character, that he’s so nomadic, constantly on the move that she wants to --

“Stop thinking so fucken loud.”

“Oh!” She laughs, somewhat guilty.

In the soft white and gold morning of the hotel room, he tilts his untidy head back and gives her a sleepy ironic smile. She strokes his beloved face, endlessly fascinated with all its creases and sleek contours. As he moves to the pillow beside her, her fingertips follow and he nips gently at them. There’s that certain glint in his eyes now, the promise of heat that makes her thrill inside. Now she’s aware that the tee has ridden up her bare thighs, that maybe he is quite naked under the covers. With intent, she trails her fingers down.

“All right, come on, out of bed!” An actual smack on her arse over the covers and he’s across the room in no time at all, throwing open his undone suitcase. 

She whines, burrowing into the pillow. He’s always unbearably energetic in the morning, it makes her sick.

“No, no, no,” he warns. The bedlinen starts to slide off her, and she grabs at it, protesting, “We have all day --”

“Exactly, come on.”

“-- the reservation’s not until tonight --” Now they’re both pulling at the covers.

“Which is why we can get out and see stuff now --”

“I don’t want to,” she wails. He lets go, eyes wide with dismay. “Well, no,” she amends, gathering the covers around her. “I do want to see all the --”

Just like that, his good humour and mischief returns. “Yeah, you do,” he coaxes, clambering onto the bed, all pale limbs and rumpled silver hair. So beautiful her breath catches in her chest. He is never so lovely as when he’s like this, playful and joyous. “Think of all the decorations, all the colours and twinkle lights. You know you want to see it ...” 

She glares. “If you start waggling your brows at me --”

Naturally, he does, an outrageous beautiful idiot, and she howls, lashing out. When the flurry of pillows and indignant laughter settles, he has her pinned under the covers, breathless and on her stomach, with his full weight and length on her. “You bastard,” she grunts into the bed. “Let me up.”

He doesn’t move, breathing a little too rapidly into her messy hair.

“Let me up,” she insists. “How are we supposed to go --”

“In a minute.”

Then she gets it. That particular ragged edge to his voice, she knows that tone. Her mouth curving, she starts to push her hips up against --

“All right. Up you get.”

And he’s gone again. Now breathless for a completely different reason, she sits up, pushing her hair out of her eyes. He’s back at the suitcase, pulling out a pair of black jeans to inspect them. 

“All right,” she says reflectively, “we’re clearly going for delayed gratification here, are we?”

“Will you hurry up, please?” She gets the imperious look -- cool blue eyes, quirking brows, and thin tache. It’s all terribly attractive. But she certainly isn’t giving him that satisfaction.

“Ooh,” she says. “How masterful you look in your little polka dot undies.”

When he lunges at her, she yelps and escapes, laughing, into the bathroom.

____________

 

They spend most of the day braving the sleet and wind of Manhattan for the Christmas sights. And oh, the city decked out is magnificent. It seems like there are garlands of greenery and colourful ornaments on every street post, every awning weighted with gold and red and green. Carols spilling out of storefronts and cafes, huge decorated trees in glass lobbies of office buildings, oversized baubles in the open spaces outside. 

All the sumptuousness and elegance of the window displays on Sixth Avenue pretty much make up for negotiating the crowds of shoppers. Then over to the Union Square markets for the interesting artisanal wares, exchanging grins at overheard conversations about prices. Eventually she informs him, “I’m going to get a snow globe.”

“Yeah?” he says, preoccupied with a tray of signet rings like he doesn’t have enough already. 

As he tugs off a leather glove, she grabs one end of the woolly red scarf wound around his neck. “Listen. The most perfect snow globe. I have to have it. I don’t know what it looks like, where I’m going to find it -- maybe it’s got some gold in it, maybe a little bit of red, I don’t know. But that is what I’m hunting this year. The perfect snow globe. It’s out there, it’s calling to me. I’m going to find it.”

He glances up, ruddy cheeked and hair ruffled, his expression that perfect wry tenderness. “This is you resisting Christmas commercialism, is it?”

“It’s not commercialism,” she retorts, stung. “It’s pure. It’s an aesthetic thing!”

“Uh huh.” He takes her hand, tucking it into the crook of his elbow. His leather jacket is so sleek and soft she rubs her cheek against his shoulder and watches him say with a smirk, “Not materialistic at all.”

“No! Aesthetic, didn’t you hear me just say that? It’s not about the most expensive snow globe or the most prestigious one. I don’t care where I find it. It could be anywhere, it could be in some flea market, it could be here, it could be in freaking Harrods. I’ll know it when I see it because it will be the perfect visual. Aesthetic.”

“Yes, babe.” He stops and turns to her, pulling the fur-trimmed hood up on her coat and adjusting it around her face. The light from a red paper star nearby gleams the bold contour of his cheekbone. His eyes are a very malicious blue. “If you keep repeating it, I’m sure it’ll become true.”

“Arse.” As they wander towards the exit, following the stream of people, she remembers. “Anyway, you can’t criticise me. I’ve seen what you’re like in the Star Wars store!”

His eyes brighten. “Ooh, speaking of --”

“I know. Did you get tickets? Are we doing it tomorrow?”

“Obviously tomorrow, we can’t do it tonight.”

“No,” she agrees, familiar excitement bubbling inside. “So what, first session tomorrow morning? Where?”

“Never you mind where. I’ve got it sorted. We just have to be back here in time.”

She hugs his arm, so happy. “The most wonderful time of the year --”

“Star Wars time,” he completes, just as cheesy.

She giggles. “You’re awful -- oh my god! Look!” She points across to the sign. “Look, we have to go! Come on!”

The Max Brenner store is a haven of warmth and chocolate fumes, strung with red and gold and green for the season, and packed with people at tables and counters. While he wanders off to the pralines display, she lines up to get them hot drinks, and eventually joins him. “Fuck, that’s good,” he says involuntarily after the first sip. “What the fuck is it?”

She beams at him, so proud and only a little homesick. “Dark Italian hot chocolate. Made with custard. Ready to go back out?” 

“Let’s do it. Wait, wait. Let’s get some pralines for the hotel room.”

Her heart booming, she kisses him lightly. “I adore you.”

He smiles at her, crinkles forming at the corners of his pretty eyes, his gloved hand settling on the curve of her hip.

In Central Park, they watch the ice skaters with their colourful outfits and glittering blades. Most certainly not snorting behind their shades at the flailing and spills. “Watch that one, watch that one,” he hisses, his arm around her waist. “Totally gunna stack it, any moment now, any moment now -- oof!”

Her body shaking with laughter, she tugs him away from the rink. “Come on, let’s look at some commercialism.”

They do a little shopping in the department stores. Somewhat overwhelmed by the barrage of colour and sound and crowds, she buys a few small ornaments for friends back home. Of course he finds presents for his girls, and she has to keep reminding him he’s going to have to carry all of that onto the plane. “Yeah, but Americans don’t care about excess baggage,” he reminds her gleefully.

“Oh yeah … Okay, but not that. No teenage girl with an ounce of fashion sense is going to wear that, you fossil.”

He holds up the ghastly sweater, wrinkling his nose as he considers. “I think it’s pretty!”

“Yes, but you pay someone to dress you. Give me that.”

“No!” He dodges her reach and scampers off with it, entirely too mischievous. “It’ll be great, she’ll love it!”

There’s no helping some people. With a sigh, she gathers up her selections and follows him to the next rack of clothes, shaking her head. Maybe his kid will think it’s ironic.

___________

 

They drive out of Manhattan as the city lights up behind them.

“Music!” he commands, smacking the dashboard.

“Christmas music?” She’s already scrolling through Spotify playlists.

“Fuck yes!”

She grins to herself, delighted. “Awesome.”

The drive upstate goes through pretty countryside all blanketed with snow. Even with holiday traffic, it doesn’t take nearly as long as she expects. Of course he sings along, doing his best croony Dean Martin that makes her giggle and curl her toes. They have a slight argument about the merits of Dino versus Michael Buble which is thoroughly enjoyable. He is such a loud personality, sometimes that’s a bit exhausting but then there are times when his exuberance is the thing she loves best about him.

When they arrive at the big estate in Westchester, she gets out and tips her hood back to look up at the skies glittering cold. The crisp air fills with the scent of woodsmoke and luscious food, sharpens the drift of conversation on the breeze, and the slam of the car door that brings her back to him. “Oh my god, look how beautiful this place is …”

His face softens as he comes to her, glancing at the massive building looming before them. The estate is made up of beautifully refurbished stone barns, and the hotel accomodation wing has a huge glass wall revealing gold lamps suspended from high wooden rafters. 

“It’s pretty fucken fabulous, right? Come on, let’s check in. I want to shower before dinner.”

Their room has bare brick walls and arched windows onto the pastures dark blue in the night. There’s a buttoned leather couch, rugs scattered on the dark polished wooden floorboards, and a fireplace crackling bright behind an iron lace screen. “Oh,” she whispers, loving this rustic glamour. As he passes her with their bags, his mouth tips in a pleased smile. 

“This was such a good idea,” she blurts out, catching him in an impulsive hug. “I’m so glad we did this.”

He laughs quietly, letting the cases drop to wrap his arms around her. Even with the tache, his mouth is so sweet when he smiles, all the contours of his face curving with tenderness as he watches her. “It was your idea to come here,” he reminds her gently, leaning in to rub his nose against hers.

She closes her eyes and lets their lips touch. Soft skin and the scrape of scruff. “Yeah, but this whole trip was your idea.”

“Mm.” The smile lingers in his voice, curling heat through her. His hands are tightening on the curve of her waist, that subtle signal of his desire. “Come on,” he murmurs without moving, “I’m fucken starving. Let’s change for dinner.”

And she knows, just from the slow timbre of his voice, that later tonight will be everything delicious and sinful, just the way she likes it. A little wicked, she steps back out of his arms and sends him a flirtatious smile as she turns away to her suitcase. His chuckle is very low and deep.

____________

 

Flakes of snow drift down as they cross the courtyard to the restaurant in the adjacent building, guided by a line of perfectly spaced lanterns on the cobbles. He’s quite charmed by this, and makes her stop so he can take a pic on his phone of her gold heels in the glow of a lantern. She laughs, holding onto the lapels of his jacket for balance. “What a glamorous Christmas couple,” she teases. 

It’s not a joke. He’s changed into a perfectly cut blue suit and a snowy white shirt with open collar framing his throat. Blue lace up shoes, and his favourite silver signet ring. Most astonishing of all, the tache has vanished. He looks so sleek and elegant her mouth goes dry. He knows damned well the effect he had on her, a secret smile in the curves of his tapered face as he steadies her with one big hand on the point of her hip.

“You look very pretty and Christmassy,” he tells her softly. 

Such unprovoked appreciation makes her blush, even though she knows he’s right. “Thank you,” she says, casting her lashes down in her best fake demure. Her dress is red pure silk, matching bolero, gold stockings with tiny red hearts, gold heels, and gold twisted in her hair. And when they walk into the terribly elegant restaurant, she knows they look damned fine together.

The meal is a tasting menu, long and completely unpredictable, something she had hoped he’d appreciate. His energy isn’t quite so explosive now. When they’re seated in the little leather booth and the waiter launches into the introductory spiel, he listens with a small attentive smile and reaches his hand across the smooth white tablecloth to take hers. It’s a familiar unspoken need for contact, she knows she should be used to it by now and maybe she is, but it always flicks some secret place in her heart. 

The courses arrive, one after the other, tiny bites of interesting winter vegetables and those preserved from spring and summer. He holds her hand, and they talk about the last three weeks apart, about next year, about work and family. His skin seems to glow in the golden light, such gentleness in his pretty blue eyes and the tender curve of his smile. He greatly approves of the little beetroot burgers, she likes the little gherkins on spikes. They both refuse a glass of wine, he takes surreptitious pix of the very understated Christmas decorations and puts them up on Instagram.

The courses turn to slivers of meat with crackling and dollops of parfait, arranged on charcoal slabs and stone platters. It’s all weirdly filling and totally worth the hype. The little lantern on the table flickers patterns of lace and shadow across his face as their conversation turns to past Christmases, the good ones and the bad times. Some of it she’s heard before but that doesn’t matter. Here and now, with the warmth in his eyes, and the way her fingers link with his, with the faint jazz wreathing the dim golden air around them, everything feels pure and lovely and safe. This healing time of the year after all the awfulness has passed and there is the hope of better things to come.

Dessert arrives in the whimsical form of a chocolate egg placed in a nest they’re told they can totally eat. When they crack the chocolate, the scent of cinnamon and eggnog wafts up, and he laughs out loud. 

She grins. “See, told you this place would be awesome.” 

Mouth full, he points his little spoon at her, the silver signet ring catching light, his eyes sparkling dark blue. Presumably, that’s him agreeing.

___________

 

By the time they leave the restaurant, it’s snowing, drifts of white by the lanterns and doorways. “Oh god,” she gasps, clutching her bolero closed over her chest. “Whose idea was it to leave the coats in the room?”

He grabs her hand, his breath a puff of white. “It’s not far, we’ll run for it!”

“You run for it, you’re not the one wearing --” she squeals when he swings her up off her feet and into his arms. Bursts into laughter, clutching at him as he dashes across the courtyard. Such a silly man, beautiful and ruddy cheeked, snow melting in his silvered hair. 

“My Christmas prince,” she says fondly as he lets her down. He laughs, blushing a little, and hustles her into the foyer.

Their room is a warm darkness of shapes dancing with firelight. “Oh, lovely,” she sighs, taking off her bolero. As her vision adjusts to the dark, he closes the door and comes up behind her. That expensive cologne curls around her as he moves her hair aside and kisses the tender base of her neck. A moan in her throat, she lifts her head back, seeking his mouth. 

But he’s already moved away, saying smoothly, “Do you want a drink? There’s brandy here.”

Undisturbed, she smiles to herself. “Yes, why not?”

Bolero cast over the back of the couch, she sets the music playing over the discreet stereo. Soft smooth Christmas songs that makes her long for fairy lights twined through greenery around the room. As the melody swirls through the flickering air, aching with love, she twirls on a silly little impulse but then it catches her, the easy joy of dancing to a good easy song. And because he understands the drama and romance of things, he catches her outstretched hand and spins her with a soft laugh into his arms. 

They dance on the small space of dark floorboards, embarrassment giving way to uncomplicated gentle happiness. She smiles at him, loving this, the way he holds her, one hand clasping hers close to his heart, the other splayed big and safe at the small of her back. The full skirt of her silk dress moves and squashes between them. He’s discarded his suit jacket somewhere, so deliciously casual in this lovely white shirt with the open collar. His face all tender, he spins her out and back in. And of course, because he’s a dork, he sings quietly along, like the same dream of twinkle lights and greenery is in his head too.

Then the song is one that cuts too close to the bone. When it begins, she considers quickly whether to head it off with a joke. But no, that seems wrong somehow. Feel the moment, be true to this moment. 

And he feels it too, it tells in the way his body slows, in the way his head bends to hers and he moves closer, seeking comfort. She lets his hand go and wraps both her arms around his waist, cheek against his throbbing heart. They’re barely swaying now. He goes quiet, listening to the words, clearly feeling them like she does, like he follows her thoughts back back across the ocean, across the dark air and darker waters. It’s slow, it’s beautifully sad, and the last phrase drifts across the room, half conscious, all aching, “... if only in my dreams.”

As the last notes trickle away and the next song begins, much happier and soothing, she draws him to the couch. “Hey, what happened to brandy?”

He focuses on her with a small dawning smile. “Oh yeah, that’s right.”

Relieved, she bounces onto the couch and watches as he brings over the snifters and sits down, his bare pretty mouth curving. She snuggles up to him, the silk of her dress crushed between them, and swirls the liquid gold. His arm is draped around her shoulders, his chest warm and solid through the thin white shirt. He sips the same time she does, a wordless murmur of appreciation, and leans his cheek against her hair. The brandy is an exquisite burn down her throat, coiling warmth all through her blood.

“Love this song,” he says dreamily.

“Nat’s the best,” she agrees, and tips her head up. He’s so lovely to look at, it amazes her that she doesn’t yet take this for granted. Lazily, he smiles back at her and, with his free hand, runs the tip of his thumb along the side of her face. The firelight gilds the contours of his cheekbones, picks up the thousand tiny freckles of his creased skin. His upper lip seems tender and perfectly shaped now, that defined dip and slight jut out like a promise, like he keeps all his secrets and sweetness held in until just the right moment. 

“Babe,” he murmurs, touching her chin, the snifter still cradled in his big hand. She lets her mouth curve, aware of exactly how sophisticated and lovely she looks. And there is that flare of intensity in his eyes, the glint of fierce blue, before he leans in and kisses her. It’s exquisitely soft, all that carnal power leashed back, held in, another promise. She whimpers in her throat, liquid heat twisting through her blood, and kisses him deeper and wetter.

“Fuck,” he says on a ragged breath, pulling away to take the brandy from both of them. Beyond him, she catches a glimpse of the arched window. Dark blue skies and snow coming down thick and silent. With perfect timing, that weirdly seductive Doris Day version of the song begins. And then she’s being kissed the way she wants, deep and thorough, draped against him the way she wants, breasts against his chest, his hands sliding sure and possessive up her back.

“God, you smell amazing. That fucken perfume,” he mutters which makes her laugh a little shakily because his cologne is doing the same thing to her. He urges her into his lap, the fine material of his suit trousers pulling taut across the shape of his thighs, as he mouths the side of her throat. 

She gasps, reaching for his hands because she wants them on her breasts. “Yeah,” he says and starts to pull at the neckline of her dress. “Show me your tits.”

“Oh, you bastard,” she says unsteadily because he has to make this filthy and she’s never sure if she loves that or not. He laughs, eyes sharp with desire, as she unzips the back of her dress and pulls the silk down her bare arms.

“Oh!” His turn to be surprised.

“Yeah,” she says smugly, straightening up so he gets the full effect of her breasts in the satiny red plaid bra. “Am I pretty or am I not pretty?”

He’s already clasping her bare waist and pulling her close. With perfect delight, he says, “You’re very pretty and very Christmassy. Do the undies match?” He prods inquisitively at the bunched red of her dress. 

“Course they do, what do you think I am?” she retorts, indignant.

He laughs uproariously and then kisses her so deeply her head swims a little. 

“Wait, wait --” He pulls away, reaches to the side. Unable to think, she doesn’t understand until it happens and then she’s gasping, unbearably excited. Because he strips the bra off her and dribbles the brandy over the curves of her tits. It glistens in trails of gold on her creamy flesh, makes his mouth tilt with a smirk. And then just as she’s about to swear at him, he puts a hand in the middle of her back, arches her up, and starts to slowly lick it off. 

The fumes rise, alcoholic and intense, his tongue slides slick, the little sounds he makes in his throat, all these combine to make her so hot and wet inside. Brandy fumes, when he lifts his head and kisses her, making her drunk on the taste of his mouth, how he kisses so deep and long she gets lightheaded. In his lap, she whimpers and rocks against him, loving it when he grabs the curves of her arse, crumpling the dress as he pulls her onto the shape of his cock in his trousers. “Oh fuck, fuck,” he’s chanting against her tits when she’s rubbing herself on him, “god, I fucken missed you so much.”

“Course you did,” she wants to say back but the heat and hardness of him robs her of all coherence.

He lifts her without warning, just bodily picks her up, and then she’s being laid down on something fluffy and soft, the heat of the fireplace contained by the dancing patterns of the wrought iron screen a little distance away. He lies down against her, hair all messy and dark gold now as he parts her legs and slides his hands up the silky gold stockings to where the garter suspenders fasten against her bare thighs. His expression is predatory, all carnal appreciation. It goes through her like more brandy, heady and addictive.

“Come here, fuck.” She pulls at his shirt and then pulls at the buttons, wanting skin. 

“Did you miss me?”

What kind of absurd question is that? But his hand is between her legs and she’s too dizzied with lust to protest. “Yes, christ, yes …”

He leans his head closer to hers, eyes intense blue. “Did you jerk off?”

“Oh my god --” She’s squirming now, helping him slide her underwear off below the swathes of red silk.

“Did you?” he insists, watching her face, watching her gasp. “Did you think about me when you fucked yourself?”

“Oh!” His thumb has found her clit, is rubbing. His signet ring is abrading the soft inside of her thigh. “Oh my god.” Writhing on his hand, all helpless kitten whimpers and moans, feeling the heat of the fireplace on her face, on her bare breasts, the heat of his attention. “Yes, yeah I did, of course I -- oh!”

“Good,” he mutters and goes down on her. Her skirts are pushed up around her waist, legs spread wide. She still has her heels on, and the points dig into the floorboards as she clutches at his hair and cries out. His mouth on her cunt is always the most depraved uncontrollable pleasure, the shocking intimacy of it, the utter filth of his tongue swirling around her wettest softest parts. He spreads her open with his thumb and licks steadily relentlessly at her clit until she’s throbbing and whimpering, until she’s shamelessly pleading for his cock.

Because of course that’s what she thinks about when they’re apart, when she’s alone in bed and missing him. Exactly this. The sight of him looming over her as he pulls off the white shirt and undoes the tight blue trousers. He takes up all of her vision, the sheen of sweat on his tapered face, the glittering dark blue of his eyes, the glistening curve of his weird pretty mouth. The sight of him breathing hot and fast, intent on her, as she lies there, breasts bare and sticky, legs spread, holding her cunt open and wet for him. 

“Jesus fuck,” he says very eloquently, and drives his cock into her. Doesn’t wait for her to adjust, he braces himself on his arms and fucks her hard. He’s probably going to apologise later but neither of them will mind because three weeks has been a very long time without this. And she loves this, loves that sometimes he’s like this with her, demanding and voracious.

The stockings rip as they fuck. At first, he’s pulled her ankles so the points of her high heels are digging into his sides. He likes the pain, it took her a while to discover that thrilling little thing. It makes him fuck her harder, like he could hurt her but doesn’t, doesn’t ever. And now when he realises about the stockings, he drags his nails up her thighs, shredding them with a vicious open-mouthed delight. “God,” she moans, dragging his face to her so he kisses her savage and obscene.

“Turn over.” He pulls out and smacks her on the side of her thigh. “Turn over, I want you on your knees. Now.”

Sometimes she thinks he’s only ever this bossy when they’re doing this. But that’s not true. When he loses his patience, that domineering edge comes out. 

She only ever obeys when they’re doing this.

She has barely enough time to notice the fluffy white rug she’s been lying on before he shoves her face down, pulls her arse up, and rams back into her. It shocks her into crying out but he doesn’t stop, instead reaches under to fill his hands with her breasts. That lets her push her shoulderblades against his bare chest, hips nested in his, the skirts of her dress crushed and rustling between them, fucking him back with all her own furious need. “God,” he says thickly into her hair, “don’t stop, don’t fucken stop. Oh, fuck.”

She’s dripping down the inside of her thighs, but like this, in this position, she can get him to hit exactly the right spot in her cunt. Braced on her arms, she spreads her thighs, and angles so his cock drives right up against her pubic bone, right against that delicious knot of nerves. He knows, they’ve done this enough times that he knows how to get her off, and so he slows right down, right down into long deep strokes that have her sobbing with pleasure, deep and deep until her breath catches and sweetness flames through her, so intense she can’t hear can’t see can’t feel anything but this, this perfect exquisite moment. 

He shakes when she comes, the contractions of her cunt so powerful it breaks his control and he comes, shuddering and swearing, into her.

They lie together in a mess of skin and sweat and breath for a while. Until he whimpers and puts his arms around her, burrowing close like the needy animal he is after sex. She’s never as exasperated by this as she could be, wrapping her arms around him and letting him bury his face against her breasts. 

The music is still playing, grotesquely wholesome songs that make the fucking seem that much sinful. Vaguely amused by this, she draws her fingers through his hair, smiling. His breathing is returning to normal, and eventually he heaves himself up to lie beside her. All his wry intelligence and tenderness return as he smiles at her and kisses her lightly. “You right?”

“Always. I kinda think you may have missed me more than I thought.”

He grins, his eyes gleaming in the firelight. “You reckon?”

Distracted by a thought, she blinks at him. “Is this a shag rug we just shagged on?”

He bursts into laughter. “Yes! You didn’t -- you didn’t realise?”

“No!” On her back, she wriggles a little, testing the sensation. It’s inordinately tickly in all sorts of weird places. “I feel very Seventies, do you reckon we should make like Seventies porn or something?”

“Babe, we fucken did,” he drawls, getting to his feet and going off somewhere.

“Oh yeah, good point. Oof, this --” She sits up and twists the woefully abused dress around her until she can pull it off and toss it up onto the couch.

When he returns and reclines back down beside her, she says morosely, “You’ve totally ruined my special Chrissy stockings.”

“Oh?” He glances over, unconcerned. “Oh well. Here. I found the pralines.”

“Ooh.” Happily, she forgets about the stockings and cuddles up in his arms. The fire has died down to red embers but the room is still warm enough that the pralines smoosh a little between their fingers. “So good,” he murmurs, feeding her half of one and eating the other half.

“You know,” she says slowly, “I reckon we’ve gone right past commercialism into proper decadence.”

The corner of his mouth turns up. His lashes are a soft brown against the thin freckled skin of his face. From under them, he sneaks her a clever little look. “Excessive hedonism.”

She laughs and laughs.

____________

 

They drive back to the city the next day. Well, not so much the city as New Jersey where she’s only a little trepidatious about him meeting her American relatives. As it is, the sex last night and this morning in an actual bed means they’re having a terrible time keeping their hands off each other.

But family tends to well dampen that sort of thing. And her priorities are slightly muddled, anyway.

“When are we gunna see Star Wars?”

“Today.”

“Yes, but when?”

“After,” he says with great patience.

“Yes, but when?” 

“Jesus, will you calm down?” he yells suddenly.

“Don’t tell me to calm down about Star Wars! **_You_** are incapable of calming down about Star Wars either! Too. You know what I mean,” she grumbles, having confused herself.

He bites his lip, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. As she checks her phone nervously, he puts his hand on her knee. “Remind me about your cousins. Who’s gay? Which one’s on Wall Street?”

He already knows this. Aware of what he’s doing, she chatters the rest of the way. 

When they drive into the gated community, the snow is piled up along the path and on the green railings, heaped on the balconies of the townhouses hung with gold and green wreaths. The flakes whirl in on the icy wind, catch in his hair and lashes as they make their way carefully on the slippery pavers. His arms are full of presents she’s brought from home so all he can do is toss his head, blinking and cursing. 

She laughs at him over her shoulder. “Aww but you’re pretty.” 

As he rolls his eyes, his mouth secretly pleased, she stops and turns back to kiss him. In the shadow of the hood on her coat, fur trimmed and flecked with rapidly melting snowflakes, he closes his eyes and kisses her soft and warm. 

“Handsome too,” she tells him, the packages trapped between them.

“Yeah?” He grins down at himself, at the nubbly red sweater and black trousers. The collar is turned up on one of his many winter coats, this one charcoal tweed with belted cuffs. “Look,” he says, eyes glinting mischievous, “I managed to dress myself without paying someone.”

She controls her laughter this time. “Well done. Now hopefully --”

A door opens further along the path, and her cousin yells out a hello. 

Lunch with her American relatives is a loud and slightly chaotic affair in the warm confines of a slightly cluttered townhouse made quite crowded with Christmas decorations. She watches him interact, a little anxious at first until she realises he’s on his best and sweetest behaviour. He charms them so thoroughly they have no choice but to adore him. 

Of course he falls in immediate love with the two little dogs, and at one point she sees him sitting on the floor with them tumbling all over his lap as he continues a very animated discussion about American-Australian trade with her Wall Street cousin. Her uncle and her gay cousin interrogate him thoroughly. He takes this with unfailing good humour, petting the dogs as he answers and jokes. At another point, her uncle brings up the possibility of visiting Australia and doing an outback safari.

“Yum!” he says emphatically, his eyes bright. “That is a great great idea! Yum!”

Beyond him, she sighs at her uncle’s bewilderment and apologises. “He’s weird, we love him, you get used to it.”

They take their leave in the early afternoon, well fed and well kissed and hugged. 

“Now Star Wars! The war in the stars! Let’s go see a star war!” She bounces in the car seat, unabashedly loud. Her excitement has caught him, she can tell, not that he needs much encouragement. The drive back to Manhattan is one long discussion of theories and spoilers and way too much hype. They check back into the hotel with the ice forest, change, and head out again.

The neon claustrophobia of Times Square is overrun with Christmas colours jostling with looming Star Wars billboards, everything so bright and electric she has to breathe and focus on the firmness of his hand clasped around hers. Breathe and focus on getting to the cinema. 

In the crowds of people, he glances back at her, realisation in his alert blue grey eyes. But it’s all right. He guides her to his side, tucks her gloved hand between both of his, and somewhat ruthlessly gets them through the chaos into the multiplex. 

When they’re in their seats and the trailers start, he squeezes her bare hand, his keen narrow face lit by the screen. The movie starts with the familiar blare of music that jolts her heart with fierce love, her eyes filling with automatic tears. It’s a rollercoaster of so many emotions, of breathtaking visuals and beloved characters moving forward and fucking up and making amends in their different flawed lovely ways, of familiar running jokes and heart-shattering shocks. When the credits roll, he picks her hand up and puts it to his lips, overwhelmed.

“What do we do now?” she asks as they wander through the multiplex foyer. “It’s like I don’t know what to do with my life now.”

“I know, I know.” He’s blinking around at the posters and people, looking as dazed as she feels. They can’t talk about it yet, where do you even start? And once they start talking, she knows they won’t be able to stop for a good long while. Over the loudspeakers, the song roars, “-- time of the year!”

“Oh!” Abruptly reminded, she turns to him. “I know where we should go!”

Rockefeller Center does not disappoint. As she goggles up at the monumental tree, he spots something to the side and dashes off. She’s too dazzled to actually care, briefly considers reaching for her phone to take pix, and then lets go of that thought. Just be here in the moment. 

The skaters whirl on the ice, guarded by the big golden statue. The Christmas music jangles through the crisp bright air, and the magnificent tree twinkles so many points of starry colours. She hugs herself in her hooded coat, gloved hands tucked into the fur cuffs, dimly aware that she’s grinning like a giddy idiot because a good Star Wars movie is like the best Christmas present ever.

“Babe!” He reappears, breathless and silver pretty, and hands her a takeaway cup. “There’s a guy over there selling eggnog, I thought we should try --” 

“Ooh!”

His face pinkened by the cold, his eyes are bright blue, watching her eagerly as they both take a sip. It’s not bad, nowhere as wonderful as the one at Blue Hills, but good enough to cradle as they enjoy all the festive sights at Rockefeller Center. He pulls her back against his chest, his arms wrapped around her. 

It’s their last night in New York. And she tells him, “This has been so wonderful. Thank you for making it happen.”

He doesn’t say anything but she feels the way his body sways to fit hers, the smile as he presses his mouth against her hair. It’s always a little disconcerting when he goes silent like this but she’s learnt to read these moments of strong emotion.


	2. a sentimental feeling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from _Rocking Around The Christmas Tree_ by Brenda Lee.

_— london —_

They fly out of New York the next morning after talking half the night away about the movie. In the departure lounge, she puts the hood of her coat back and leans her head against his shoulder, smiling at a thought. He glances sideways from his phone to her, his lovely mouth quirking. “What?”

“Nah, I was just thinking … at least in Star Wars, we agree.”

His energy is all expansive today as he dislodges her to put his arm over the back of her seat, his hand fitting to the curve of her shoulder. She snuggles up against him, tracing her fingernail across the striated texture of his coat. It’s such a gorgeous colour, sort of mustard but golden but probably called camel or something.

“Well,” he drawls, pulling her attention back. “It’d be pretty fucken disastrous if we didn’t …”

“Calamitous,” she agrees happily.

He grins at her. “Catastrophe of gargantuan proportions.”

“See, now you’re just showing off,” she teases, making him laugh and hug her.

It’s ten days before Christmas, and the terminal at JFK is all decked out in tinsel and green and red. Wreaths and menorahs and trees heavy with ornaments and lights. Passengers are walking past with their suitcases, clutching passports and boarding passes, wearing fuzzy Santa hats. There’s something magical in the air, even more than the usual sharp thrill of an airport. When she tells him this, he regards her with a deepening smile. 

“Look, look,” she nudges him, “look at the reindeer horns on that lady. Antlers. They’re gold! Behind the United counter, see. That’s so cool they let their staff do that.” As he presses a slow kiss to her temple, she crows, “Four! That’s four Santa hats now. Are you counting?” 

“Uh huh. I’ve got six, though --”

“Six!”

“And one tinsel boa --”

“What, where? Who’s got --”

“-- there by the sandwiches. The pink one, see?”

“God, it’s so pink,” she marvels.

“Very, very pink,” he agrees.

The festive decorations are on the plane too, making her giggle. She informs him she has every intention of spending the seven and a bit hours to London watching all the Christmas movies he can’t stand. “You do that,” he says calmly, unwrapping the earphones. “But not --”

“I am not watching It’s A Wonderful Life.”

“Yeah, you better save that for us.”

She smirks at him. “Is this a good time to tell you I can’t stand Jimmy Stewart?”

The look she gets is so horrified it makes her choke back a laugh. “You’re joking!” he exclaims in tones of ripe disgust, earphones dangling forgotten from his hands.

This is too much fun. “Sort of. I can tolerate him in that --”

“The rabbit film,” he interrupts sharply. His eyes have narrowed on her, gleaming blue in the clean light of the airplane. 

“Yeah, I like him in Harvey. And Rope, he was okay in that.”

He rolls his eyes, going back to his earphones. “Okay, so you do like Jimmy Stewart. There’s no fucken need to give me a fucken heart attack like that, jesus fucken christ --”

“Ooh, that was a deal breaker, was it?” she teases, shameless about it. 

He tries to glare at her, so much humour in the curves of his smile and sparkling eyes. “Stop taking the piss, woman. Some things are sacred.”

She giggles, probably with a little too much malice because she gets a suspicious look and has to sober down. He can hear her opinions about Tarkovsky another time.

When they land at Heathrow, terminal five is scattered with glittering white Christmas trees. Struggling with her wheelie as she tries to take in all the sights, she nearly falls over when she realises. "Swarovski!”

He’s grabbed her, alarmed. “What?”

She points to the sign by the Christmas tree. “Swarovski decorations! You know what that means! You --” She focuses abruptly on him. “Oh you fucken Melbournite. Don’t you remember?”

He raises his brows, ever so sceptical, and she makes a face at him, pretty sure he’s just being difficult now. “The QVB Christmas tree that Swarovski does every year -- oh,” she wails a little as he gets them walking again, his hand cupping her elbow. “Oh god, I’m all homesick now!”

“Babe,” he says severely, “shut the fuck up before you get me started too. Look, there’s Harrods.”

“I cannot be that easily distracted,” she says with immense dignity, pulling her hood up with one hand as she drags the wheelie behind her.

“Snow globes.”

___________

 

“So apparently it hasn’t properly snowed in London for over thirty years,” he tells her when they get out of the cab. “I read that on the plane --”

“Yeah, I’m still fucken freezing -- what? What do you mean?” she says indignantly, buttoning her coat up to the throat. “It snowed like fuck in Bridget Jones’ Diary at the -- ohhh my god.”

He shakes his head, entirely too smug. “Snap.”

“Oh my god. I have been cruelly duped by movie magic. And it is still so cold! I can’t feel my nose!”

Still, St John’s Wood looks very pretty in the dusk, the looming mass of houses with glowing windows, the dark hedges and bare trees strung with tiny golden lights. She looks around as she follows him to the footpath, wheelie cooperating this time.

“Whingey Sydneysider,” he murmurs as he peers at the house number.

“What?” She can’t believe what she just heard. “What did you just say to me --”

“One twenty-six, here we go.” He gives her a very cheeky grin, so beautiful and provocative she can’t hold onto her outrage. “Coming?”

“You …”

No hotel room this time. They’re part of a Christmas house party hosted by a couple he’s known forever. She’s struck with shyness the moment they enter, overwhelmed by the white grandeur of the townhouse and the people already yelling hello from the living areas and bedrooms. There is no one she knows here and she has to fight the urge to hide behind him.

But their hosts are lovely, showing them to the allocated bedroom. It’s very big and very white, with accents of bronze. She feels a little faint at all the streaked marble and ivory recessed lighting of the enormous ensuite. It’s a long long way from her cosy apartment on the tree-lined avenue.

The next few days are an almost endless stream of parties and raucous gatherings in the house and at various pubs and restaurants around London. The city at night is so many incredible displays of gorgeousness, from the vivid sparkling shapes of Carnaby Street to the trees wound entirely with gold and copper twinkles to the great spangled nets and angel of pale gold light soaring over the glorious white curve of Regent Street. From a bar on South Bank, she takes a picture of the London Eye blazing in a circle of white neon. 

Of course he’s in high octane mode, energised by the company and the drink and the celebrations. She keeps up as best she can, trying not to resent the fact that she can’t have him to herself. There’s a constant parade of people arriving at and leaving the house, clattering up and down the staircase wound with red and green garlands, cooking and laughing in the kitchen, music playing from different rooms. 

The Christmas tree in the living room towers to the moulded ceilings, white feathers with red and green ornaments. The evenings they’re all home, she curls up on one of the striped couches, watching and laughing at the various conversations. Her initial shyness has worn off now she’s figured out the slightly rowdy lewd dynamic of the house party, now they’ve realised she can banter and snipe back. And always he finds and joins her on the couch, so warm and real as he curls his arm around her shoulders and pulls her gently against his chest. She swings her legs across his lap, responding to a called out remark from across the room, perfectly happy as he laughs with them and drinks his beer.

In Shoreditch, they have lunch with the London branch of her family, and she watches as he switches into high charm again. Every now and then he catches her eye and sends her a secret smile. When she asks him later in bed what he thought of them, he says, “Let’s face it, babe. I would have liked them a lot better if they had a couple of dogs.”

She laughs, burying her face against the smooth warmth of his naked chest. As he plays with her hair, she raises her head to say merrily, “They have a tortoise, would that do?”

He considers this with a grave expression. “Depends on the tortoise’s personality,” he decides, and finds himself very funny.

___________

 

On the fifth morning, when they’re told about the house party’s schedule for the day, he cheerfully informs their hosts that they’ve got other plans. Astonished, she says nothing. Their hosts don’t mind. As the bedroom door closes, he turns to her and claps his hands with determination. “Right, move your arse, we’re heading out.”

“We are? Right, yes!”

They spend the day taking in the festive sights of London, from the weird Christmas tree of Trafalgar Square to the sumptuous gold and red of the Strand and the charming wooden huts of the Christmas markets at South Bank crowded with ornaments. It’s warm enough that she leaves her gloves and big fur trimmed coat behind, venturing out in fleece lined leather leggings and an oversized charcoal grey cardigan. The winter sunshine catches the silver in his hair. The soft blue of his eyes seem even bluer today because of the thick cashmere sweater he wears with dark jeans. “I got you that sweater,” she says, unable to help herself. 

“Really, did you?” he teases.

She elbows him gently in response.

They walk along the Victoria Embankment, sipping mulled wine from the markets, and he talks non-stop about the history of places he recognises, anecdotes of people and politics and cinematic significance. “And see this? Way way down from here, down that way is where Leslie Howard walks at the end of Pygmalion. It’s a great fucken little scene. I think that movie was one of the first to do location shoots in London, you know. You remember that?” he demands, his eyes bright and hair ruffled by the cold wind.

“Oh maybe,” she says diffidently. “I’ve only seen Pygmalion about ten or fifteen times.”

Abashed, he bites his lip, peeking at her from under his lashes. “Did I fucken mansplain? Mea culpa, mea absafuckenculpa.”

“Sokay, my darling.” She hugs his arm as they stroll along the Embankment. “I still love you and your big random brain.”

“Oh good,” he says and kisses the back of her bare hand.

In Piccadilly, they both grin at the fountain, another Pygmalion location. Walking through the crowds of tourists and shoppers, holding hands and talking about it all. 

They spend some time in Hatchard where he approves loudly of the wreaths and ribbons in the front window, and some staff member smiles beatifically at him. Stifling a giggle, she pulls him into the history section where she intends to leave him for a very happy half hour while she struggles not to buy yet another copy of Jane Eyre just because this edition is so damned pretty.

But no, he comes to find her because apparently it’s very exciting that he’s found this certain biography of Hermann Hesse. She listens patiently, looking at the freckles that swirl down the slope of his cheekbone as he whispers his fierce passion at her. Eventually, he heaves a contented sigh and lapses into silence, gazing down at the book cover with an expression of perfect bliss. 

“Okay,” she says, poking a finger into his cashmere soft chest. “Make you a deal. I’ll buy that for you if you buy this for me, no argument, no questions!”

“What --” He grabs the book from her, bewildered, and then laughs too loud. 

Mortified for more than one reason, she shushes him, hustling them both towards the cash registers as he giggles the whole way.

“How many is that now?” he asks, so impertinent, as they’re leaving Hatchard. “Eleven? Fifteen?”

Her face warm, she declares, “I have no idea what you’re talking about --”

“You’re totally in control, you can stop any time,” he taunts.

“That is not funny, I’m going to smack you -- oh my sainted aunt.”

A few doors up from Hatchard is Fortnum and Mason. It’s the most glorious thing she’s ever seen. 

“Look!” He points to the row of pine trees above the ornate entrance, all spiky and green twined through with gold lights. Inside, the trees hang suspended in air like cascading chandeliers. All the shelves, the trinkets and chocolates and teaware, seem to glow so much richer and beautiful, like they only look this magical at this time of the year. 

When she can breathe again, she informs him, “I live here now.”

He grins in acknowledgement, his eyes wide as he looks around.

They return to the house, carrying an obscenely expensive hamper which proves an enormous success with the rest of the party. Shortbread and special teas and coffees, panettone and fruitcake, rum butter and cognac butter, preserves and marmalades and chocolate truffles. She tries to protest that it was meant just for their hosts as a thank you, but this goes quite ignored.

“It was a valiant effort, babe,” he says kindly, and kisses her temple. 

She only realises in the moment before she falls into an exhausted sleep that night that he had arranged the whole day so it was just the two of them.

Over the next few days, they explore more of London’s festivities. The ice rink at Somerset House is no less hilarious than Central Park, and they both have a terrible time concealing their giggles. 

There’s a guy roasting chestnuts outside St Martin in the Field which is all very Dickensian exciting and yummy until they discover how the char from the shell blackens their fingernails. 

“Aw jeez!” he exclaims and wipes his fingers on her black coat. 

She nearly hits him, outraged. And he, reverting to demented silver elf, dances out of her reach, grinning and unrepentant.

“You … This is my favourite coat! You animal!”

“I know,” he chortles and dances around her to tug at the back corset lacing. 

Just for that, she refuses to let him have any more chestnuts as they head back to Piccadilly. He argues and pleads and is generally an obnoxious Arian until she gives in and shells them for him.

“Emotional labour and chestnut shelling,” she grumbles, only a little serious.

“Aw diddums,” he says, popping a warm half into his mouth.

Burlington Arcade is all lush red and green garlands along the golden avenue of boutiques thronged with shoppers. She links her arm with his as they look at the ornate window displays, quietly happy at the thought of so many generations of people for a couple of centuries walking where they’ve walked. 

“Are we doing Harrods proper?” she asks, thinking snow globes again. 

“Of course. We’ll go tomorrow,” he promises.

Outside, she casts a longing look into the courtyard of the Albany, at its tall brown and white facade. A very discreet wreath hangs on the blue door. She can feel his attention on her, the bubbling amusement. “Shut up,” she says without looking at him, “I know what I am.”

“A tragic Anglophile,” he advises.

“Oh really? Really Mr Paul Scofield is the greatest actor that ever lived?”

They argue about who’s the worse Anglophile all the way back home and what that means in terms of postcolonialism and Australianness and American cultural imperialism. The other passengers on the Tube pretend not to see or hear them, although one kid in a Gorillaz tee looks very entertained.

The next day she meets a friend at the National Gallery for lunch. They have an earnest discussion about her friend’s longing for kids. When she meets him outside Waterstones, she doesn’t tell him this.

The Harrods flagship is suitably ghastly and overstuffed but she narrows her focus. Amidst the carols and crowds, she has to talk him out of buying yet another awful sweater present. “What if it’s for you,” he challenges, so very puckish.

“Then I will accidentally on purpose lose it, no, don’t!” she wails. “Don’t subject her to that, she’s so young!”

Pleading does not work. She doesn’t find that special snow globe, and he walks out of Harrods with at least one bag.

___________

 

That evening they catch the Tube back in to spend a good long while wandering, utterly entranced, through the magnificence of Kew Gardens. In the procession of families pushing prams and couples holding hands, they follow the avenue lit by orange lanterns overheard, curious about where it leads. 

There are so many trees covered with twinkle lights, gleaming different shapes and shades. The fire garden crackles, fragrant and charmingly arranged. He laughs and crouches down to take an upward pic of the paper partridge in the pear tree glowing in the centre of so much flame. She takes a pic of him, one being an weirdo photographer, and another where he smiles in her direction, so pretty and gentle in the firelight.

As kids run around them and carols trill somewhere, they hold hands and watch the fountains dancing bright in the crisp dark air. The icy brilliance of Palm House reflects in the rippling waters, changing colours that make her breath catch. He glances sideways at her. “What?” 

“Vivid,” she murmurs, painfully homesick. Wordless, he presses a kiss to the back of her hand. Maybe he hasn’t been back to see Sydney’s own festival of light, the jewel patterns and colour shows on the Opera House and the cityscape, but he would have seen the pictures. He knows.

A little while later, they walk past a weirdly metallic tree that sings at them. Slightly horrified, she judges him hard for his excitement about this kitschiness. He declares she has no sense of whimsy. This is an outrageous accusation. “I’ll show you whimsy,” she mutters, not even knowing what she means.

They walk around the field of glowing baubles, faintly amused by the child tantrums being thrown at exasperated parents. Rather than toast marshmallows, they inspect the food stalls where more mulled wine is procured as well as a mince pie each. He eyes the roasted chestnuts.

“Don’t you dare,” she warns. He gurgles a laugh, entirely too charming. 

As the temperature drops further, the gloves comes out and he bundles his red scarf around her throat, tucking the ends into her coat. His coat tonight is dark blue, so very elegant with a thinner blue cashmere sweater and black jeans. 

“How pretty you are,” she tells him. His bare mouth curves, subtly pleased as he arranges the fur-trimmed hood on her shoulders. It’s a weirdly satisfying sensation when he regards her like this, with a certain possessiveness. 

Or maybe she just likes him tending to her like he’s some old-fashioned valet and she’s his lord and master. When she tells him this, he laughs, intertwining their gloved fingers, and makes a lewd comment about payment for services rendered. An older couple passing gives them a slightly scandalised look.

In the tunnel of fairy lights, he holds her close as he gazes up and breathes, “It’s so magical.” She leans her forehead against his chest, drawing in the aromas of the winter garden and the more intimate scent of him. Mulled wine, faint nicotine, and that cologne. 

He pulls his coat around her so she’s doubly enveloped, warm wool on the outside and cashmere so smooth against her cheek. He’s only wearing a tee under the sweater, and this close in the glimmer of gold, she can see his nipples beading through the fine layers. A little wicked, she creeps her fingertips up. As he looks distractedly at her, she flicks his nipple and he squawks, jolting them both.

“Rude!” he exclaims, squeezing her til she protests, laughing. A brief hot kiss gets them wolf-whistled. He blushes a little as they stop and walk on.

When they get home, there’s a bit of intense making out against the bedroom dresser before they get called down for charades where they are deliberately put on separate teams. 

This makes for a lot of yelling. 

Ultimately, it’s a draw.

____________

 

Christmas Eve is a peaceful affair. Some of the party goes to midnight mass. She wonders if he wants to do presents when the clock strikes but no, he’s gone all quiet and she knows exactly why. 

They go up to bed while the carols play on the television downstairs. In the ivory dimness of their room, he toes off his shoes and lies back on the bed, closing his eyes.

Wordless, she climbs in beside him and lies on her stomach, not touching him. Her hand is curled by her mouth as she watches his profile by the glimmer of street light. There is nothing she can say, she knows that. 

Eventually he takes in a deep breath and turns onto his side towards her. His eyes are very soft dark blue. “Say something,” he mumbles, his voice rough with emotion.

Now that she has permission, she knows. Raising a finger, she says, “Two things. First” -- her voice goes very gentle -- “it’s only a matter of hours now. One night, less than ten hours.”

His lids flicker, she can see him accepting this and calming down. “Second?”

“Wanna watch Star Wars?”

He’s startled into laughing and then it becomes a genuine hearty and maybe a little unhinged fit of laughter, turning him onto his back. “What,” he eventually manages, “all of it?”

“Nah. Well -- ooh.” She’s realised the problem.

“Yeah.” He grins slow, that weird mouth lopsided and sweet. “Which one?”

Because his favourite Star Wars film is not her favourite Star Wars film. Although that might have changed.

Inspired, she struggles up onto her elbows. “Why don’t we go see the new one again? We can do that!”

He’s already shaking his head, reaching out to stroke his fingers along the side of her throat. “Nah, I don’t want to go out. We’ll stay in and stream something --”

“Netflix and chill,” she murmurs, trying not to leer.

His eyes glint in the shadows. “Sright.”

They decide to use his iPad rather than go back downstairs. As he sits on the side of the bed, head bent as he logs into Netflix, she peels off her brocade leggings and slips her bra out from under her top.

“Ha,” he says suddenly.

“What?” She shuffles over to put her chin on his shoulder, unabashedly breathing in the smell of his skin and hair. He’s wearing his Faulkner tee again, it’s her favourite, she keeps threatening to steal it off him.

“No Jedi love from Netflix UK.”

“Booooo. Bloody Poms --”

“Sokay.” He turns his face to hers and kisses her mouth softly. “I know what we can watch.”

Several minutes later, she lets out a dramatic groan and he goes off into another fit of laughter. He really is ridiculously easily amused. But then she likes setting him off.

“Fucken Jimmy Stewart,” she mutters, wriggling violently.

“Hey, careful! Here, turn.”

The iPad is propped up on her side of the bed. His arm across her waist, his cheek nestles against hers, his chest to her back. They are perfectly cuddled up together under the covers. She enjoys this so much it takes her a while to realise. “I can’t move now, can I?”

“Nope.” His voice resonates through her, so close and so very smug. She can feel the tremor of laughter in his body.

“This is cruel and unusual punishment. I protest.” 

“Shut up,” he offers sweetly. “Watch the movie. You can rant about why you hate him afterwards.”

She turns her face enough to kiss him, soft lips and a hint of tongue that makes him stir against her. Before she draws backs to add, “And Capra. Fucken Capra, too.”

He controls his exasperation rather well. “Yes, babe. Him, too.”

He falls asleep just as the swimming pool bit begins. When she turns and eases him back against the pillows, his face seems so vulnerable and tired in the blue white light. Creases and freckles and soft thin mouth and the curve of his chin. The sight of him makes her heart clench with a protectiveness so fierce she knows she cannot ever voice it. 

She is not the first woman to feel this about him, rather the latest in a very long line. And he is not defenceless. He has a temper, a highly developed mind, and a certain capacity for malice along with so much tenderness. He has fucked up, he will most likely fuck up again, he’s broken relationships and failed people just like she has. And she can’t, won’t fix his disasters. But here in the dark with the street light pale on the ceiling and the faint melancholy of carols from below, here at the weary fraying end of the year, the urge to keep him safe from the world is very very hard to quell.

So she turns the iPad off and puts it on the bedside table. There’s a slight commotion in the street, muffled sounds of people returning to the house. 

In the breathing quiet of their room, she kisses his lips as he sleeps on, her damaged prince, and whispers, “Merry Christmas, darling.”

___________

 

She awakes to a sensation. As she struggles to open her eyes, he kisses her again. A small precise and utterly adorable kiss by the corner of her mouth. Another a few centimetres up her cheek. When she focuses on him, he’s got that very tender secret smile. 

“Merry Christmas, darling,” he says, and she blushes hard.

“Merry Christmas,” she mumbles, shy about her breath. 

He bends his head and kisses the tip of her nose. His voice is low and warm. “D’you want your present now or later?”

Just as she starts to grin, there’s a clatter of doors opening and people on the stairs, greetings yelled and new voices joining the hubbub. “Later,” she tells him, and rubs her nose against his in that way he likes. “Tonight, after everything.”

As usual, he’s already dressed, clean shaven and hair flicked up, smelling all lovely. She chokes back a laugh when he scrambles off the bed and stands back to show off his Christmas sweater, grinning like a lunatic. 

“Well?” he demands.

“It’s actually not bad,” she manages, trying to contain her giggles. “I like it. A lot. You look very smart.” 

“Fucken ay I do!” He’s so proud of himself. And really she’s impressed. Black formal trousers, black lace ups, and the sweater is a deep green patterned with lines of tiny trees and snowflakes in white. He did well.

“Are you off?” she asks, getting out of bed.

“Yep, yep.” He shrugs on the mustard coat, pats all the pockets with increasing agitation.

“There,” she says dryly, pointing to his red phone on the dresser.

“Right! Yes! I’ll see you soon.” He kisses her fast and dashes out, leaving her to shower and get ready in peace.

The house fills steadily with people and music and so many wafting aromas of baking food. She joins the preparations, introduced to all the new arrivals. The presents pile up around the tree, coats thrown over the banister. So much hugging and kissing and conversations crossing, children running around and getting into everything.

By the time he returns, the first round of nibblies is being set out. He ushers his two girls in, a little anxious. A welcome chorus erupts from the people thronging the living area, which naturally scares both kids. She squelches her own nerves, coming forward to smile, say hello and take their coats.

It’s a little while before everyone gets into the swing of things. She watches him be utterly tender with his kids, happiness radiating off him like sunshine. In the focus of his attention, the girls relax, distracted by the various shenanigans of Christmas crackers and jokes and getting corralled into setting the table. 

His teenager likes her dress which is quite gratifying. It’s red lace and tulle, the skirt short and full, scattered with black sparkly bits. Red stockings, black heels, and gold in her hair. From the bar where he’s helping make drinks, he gives her a very appreciative look. 

Her face warm, she helps the girls light the candles. His little one, clutching the current favourite toy, takes this opportunity to tell her about the lighting of the menorah earlier that month, about the very important accumulation of chocolate gelt. She agrees this kind of wealth is absolutely vital to a person’s happiness.

Soon after this, he dashes out from behind the bar, phone in hand. His dad is on FaceTime so naturally the girls are herded off to a quieter room where they can all yell happily across time and distance at the Melbourne relatives. She stays with the party, involving herself in a passionate discussion about this year’s Bake Off and who should have won, and just how hot is Paul Hollywood anyway?

When they return, he puts his arm around her waist and kisses her cheek, his happiness like sunshine. “All good?” she asks softly.

“All good,” he replies and kisses her with a slow chaste meaning she can’t quite decipher. Of course this causes some protest about appropriate behaviour at family-rated events, and he’s banished back to the bar. She returns to the girls, warm all over now.

The entrees come out, various dips and the like. The little one eyes each one with great suspicion, and has to be coaxed or persuaded into trying them for herself. In this, the teenager excels.

Then disaster strikes. Apparently the gravy has separated. There’s much panic and confusion until, quite unsurprised, she hears his voice cutting through the chaos. 

“Just add flour, salt, a little red wine --” he’s not even going to make it through without succumbing to his own hilarity “-- and don’t forget a dollop of tomato sauce --”

This last bit is met with loud derision, outraged yells and comments about upstart colonials. He’s dragged from behind the bar towards the kitchen. Across the hot crowded space, he looks back at her, eyes bright, his body practically vibrating with laughter. 

She shakes her head at him, and mouths, “Dag.”

Because of course not a lot of people there would know such an Australian song. And he can never ever help himself quoting his beloved Paul Kelly. 

When the gravy is saved and lunch is in its final stages of preparation, the aromas rich in the heavy air, the festivities turn to dancing in the living and dining area. Kids and adults alike bouncing to Mariah and Stevie Wonder and all the good old favourites. 

Glass of mulled wine held aloft, she does the twist in the middle of the crowd, skirt swinging, joy fizzing through her. They’re a long long way from home, this is nothing like the Christmases they know but some things remain the same, and this pure uncomplicated fun is one. He grabs her at some point, a quick arm around her waist, a flash of sparkling blue grey eyes, and a fast fierce kiss. She laughs, saving her wine from spilling. 

A little later, she watches from the couch as he teaches his giggly teenager how to jive, the strong secure way he reels her out and in, the careful joy of him. His little one sits beside her, sturdy and adorable, chattering through some thoroughly inventive story. 

Lunch is served just as everyone’s worked up a solid appetite, a few slightly ravening. All the traditional dishes of a Northern Hemisphere Christmas on the dining table festooned with garlands and ribbons and candles ablaze. They serve themselves and take to the couches, balancing full plates on laps, trying not to spill the drinks. 

Someone’s brought holly wreath crowns, drops one onto his head. He doesn’t seem to notice, she shakes hers off, both focused on the food as the conversations tangle around them. Second helpings, she can’t finish her third, and passes her plate to him. 

In a food coma, she is collapsed back against him on the striped couch with her red and black skirt crushed between them. His arm slung around her, he’s talking with his girls and another friend, his voice so expressive as he repeats himself, swears far too much and rambles earnestly about Christmas back home. She wonders what time it is in Sydney, maybe it’s already Boxing Day, cricket on the telly, maybe it’s raining a blissful cool after so much heat.

Dessert happens at the same time as presents. The floor is quickly strewn with torn colourful paper and ribbons, the cards and money hastily salvaged by anxious parents. Their hosts give her the usual handmade soaps and expensive fragrance diffusers for which she thanks them sweetly. He gets a history book and some arthouse film documentary that makes him very happy. The girls receive chocolates and pretty hair things from her. 

When the hideous Christmas sweaters are unwrapped, she grimaces apologetically at his dismayed teenager who rallies pretty well and thanks this total dork of a dad. Hilariously, the little one, face smeared with remnants of a chocolate brownie, is much more interested in the wrapping paper,

“Aw, never mind,” she says, kissing his crestfallen face, and straightens his holly crown. “In a few years, you can properly torture her with your terrible fashion choices. Have some cake.”

When it’s his turn, he puts down his beer, pretending to be very intrigued by his present. She can tell he knows what it is, but he still doesn’t know exactly what. In this, he’s a careful unwrapper instead of a ripper. As the noise continues around them, he untucks each bit of sticky tape and pulls the paper off to reveal the Run DMC record. 

“Oh my god! Christmas In -- signed! Fucken **_brilliant_**!” he yells and kisses her, his hand cradling the side of her face. “Thank you, you’re fucken wonderful …”

Enormously pleased and blushing, she waves this away. He spends the next ten minutes explaining to his oblivious little one the significance of Run DMC and why the Christmas In Hollis track is so fucken sweet. Beyond him, she exchanges a speaking look with his teenager. There really is no helping his taste in music.

Her present turns out to be something smallish and very heavy. He’s practically vibrating with excitement beside her. “Hurry up, open it, hurry up!”

“Oh my god, settle down, I’m trying not to drop it. What is it -- ohhhh. My. God.”

It’s a snow globe. A base of bleached wood, clear glass sphere, and inside a tiny scene of delicate white trees and a reindeer made of fine hammered gold, with a minute red robin perched on a branch, all swirling in pretty white.

“Do you like it?” he persists. “Is it the perfect one? I can get you another one next year, we can keep looking. We’ll find it!”

“It’s exactly what I wanted,” she tells him thickly, and hugs him for a long and totally over-emotional moment. There are kids and parents babbling around them, the sound of his small daughter in serious conversation with someone. In his arms, she is hidden and safe, the snow globe cradled between them. Breathing in his cologne and the warm wool of his green sweater, she whispers, “When? When did you even have time to go looking?” They’ve spent almost every moment together since she flew into New York.

“Ah,” he says with great tenderness. “See, there’s this thing called the internet?” 

She hiccups a laugh, shoving the snow globe against his chest. “Fuck off then, don’t tell me. Thank you,” she switches into total sincerity and kisses him slow. 

“You’re very welcome,” he murmurs, his eyes soft and so blue.

At three o’clock, someone yells to switch the music to proper television. And for a while, there is a hush in the crowded rooms as everyone gathers around to watch the Queen’s Christmas message. All white and gold opulence, somehow more ostentatious than years before. It makes her wonder if this was in response to the opulence of The Crown, to their own re-creation of the very first Christmas message which aired, as the Queen says, seventy years ago. But she keeps her silence, watching and listening, making a note to say this to him later. He takes her hand, the snow globe in her lap, and she glances up to see his mouth twitching with barely repressed mischief. “What?” she whispers.

“Postcolonial subjects of the Commonwealth,” he hisses and is shushed violently. As he blinks, startled, she buries her giggles against his shoulder.

But then the Queen starts to talk about home, about “the pull of home.” And that same sensation passes between them, the sense of the great sunburnt land so far away. His blunt fingers curl around hers, warmth cupped in the space between. 

It’s ridiculously emotional watching the Queen, especially being in London, watching her be so removed and yet so personal and familiar at the same time, how old and dignified she is, knowing that time is ever running out. 

As the little kids of every colour sing their sweet hymn, she chokes down the emotion in her throat, and he leans in and whispers, “Monarchist.”

She elbows him extremely hard in the chest, making him oof. “How dare you!” she hisses back but they’re already laughing as the television switches over and the conversations begin up again.

The four of them spend the rest of the afternoon lazing on the couches. People are saying their goodbyes and taking their noisy children off to other family things. There’s washing up and clearing away. None of them move, watching Beauty and the Beast on the big screen television. It’s the live action remake, not the Disney animation.

“Or the Cocteau version,” he reminds her because he can’t help himself.

“Wanker,” she says calmly, and between them, his teenager splutters a laugh. The little one is curled up on the couch, talking softly to her toy. There’s the rich comforting smell of coffee floating through the house, winter dusk shadowing the windows. He’s smoking even though he knows he’s not allowed to indoors, so very relaxed with his beer. She’s aware of being well fed and content, everything is beautiful. 

When the final reprise swells, all overwhelming emotion and rapturous romance, she’s moved to say, “Well, that’s the dream, really, isn’t it? A beautiful kind financially stable prince capable of sexual growling.”

Above the girls’ heads, he gives her a very slow very ironic smile, cigarette dangling from his lower lip, the holly wreath dark green against the silver of his rumpled hair. 

And then he demands, “How do you know he’s financially stable? He could be penniless --”

Her brows shoot up. “Did you not see that castle --”

“So?” he challenges as he decides to tickle his small daughter. “It could all be a sham.” He takes the cigarette out of his mouth, and keeps tickling with one hand, quite merciless despite the squeals and wriggles. “How’s he been earning money all these years? Everything could be falling apart. Maybe he’s marrying her for her money.”

“She has no money. The villagers pay him taxes from all that baking and laundry and stuff,” she replies above the shrieks of laughter. “I’m going to find us something warm to drink. Smack your father, will you?” she instructs his snickering teenager.

Sprawled between his kids, he smokes and laughs up at her with the twisted red and green toppled over one brow. 

There’s salted caramel hot chocolate, out of a sachet but good enough for the languor of a Christmas evening. The little one does not care for the taste at all, now very sleepy and overtired. It’s been a long day full of way too much stimulus, a well-earned exhaustion. 

When they finish their drinks, he bundles up his girls and leaves with them. A little depressed, she clears up the living area and goes to help with their hosts washing up in the kitchen.

____________

 

By the time he returns, she’s upstairs in their room. The house is heavy with silence, people either napping, gone to bed early or headed out to party elsewhere. She’s sitting hunched over her phone in the centre of the wide bed. They’ve each put pix up through the day, and now it’s a quiet delight to go through that visual record again, sealing the day in captured moments and memories. Her dress and stockings are spilled red and black over a chair, heels tossed below, it’s such a relief to be out of them. The room is all quiet shades of ivory and bronze, scattered with their clothes and travel things, the light soft and soothing. No music, no talk, just the sound of her own breathing and the hum of the central heating, and the occasional whoosh of street traffic. 

He pushes open the door, already taking off his coat. Looking up, she catches herself before she asks the obvious upsetting question. “Hey,” she says and winces at the pity in her voice.

He tosses his coat onto his open suitcase, his face drawn, and his gaze comes around to rest on her. The change that comes over his expression then is something extraordinary. It’s an exquisite softening, pure relief, a gladness. Slightly unnerved, she watches him put a knee on the end of the bed and reach to cup the side of her face. “Hello, my darling,” he says, his voice rich and deeply affectionate.

On pure instinct, she puts her arms around his shoulders and hugs him, cheek to cheek, all the love pressing through her flesh into him. He holds her for a long silent moment and then takes a deep breath and pulls back, clearly summoning a smile. “Look at you in your pretty Christmas undies,” he teases.

Blushing, she pulls the charcoal cardigan to wrap over her front, having forgotten that she’s only wearing the smooth red and black plaid set beneath. He laughs at this sudden shyness and pushes off the bed like he’s remembered. “Oh, I have something for you. Well. A couple of things.”

Effectively distracted, she sits up straight. “Ooh, more presents?”

“Two more presents.” He fetches them from his suitcase and comes back to sit on the bed. “Here we are.” His eyes gleam a naughty silver blue. “Secret Christmas present.”

“Oh my gosh.” She hugs him with quick delight, then sets to unwrap the little box. The packaging is pink and white, a brand name she recognises. Astonished, she stares at him.

“It’s a clitoral massager,” he informs her, taking it from her. “See?”

Pink and chrome and white, two pronged and very neat.

“I already have a vibrator,” she tells him mildly, not sure how she feels about this. “Two, in fact. Why would you --”

“I know,” he interrupts. “I want you to use this one.”

Her breath catches, suddenly painfully turned on. As he focuses on the little device, his mouth curving with a fine sly awareness, she manages to say, “You’re getting very dom, you know --”

“Gee, I wonder where I picked that up from,” he says dryly, running his thumb over the embedded controls.

“-- and we haven’t even discussed it. Properly.”

He glances at her from under his brows, his expression sobering. “Well, we can, can’t we?”

It relaxes something in her. Light once more, she leans in to gives him a peck of a kiss on the lips. And meets his knowing gaze with her own very carnal smile. “So … does this present come with a demonstration?”

His laugh is very low and wicked. “Absafuckenlutely.”

Biting back a giggle, she goes to slip off her underwear. “No, no,” he says quickly and then grins slow at her. “Leave them on, darling. For now.” 

As she laughs silently at him, he puts his gentle big hands on her thighs and parts her legs. She sighs into the languor of the moment, reclining back on her elbows as she watches him. His hair glinting silver, he buries his face between her thighs for a deep savouring breath, his mouth hot and open on the smooth satiny plaid. 

As she smiles down at him, so fond of the way he enjoys her, the unashamed physical joy of him, he raises his head a little and chuckles. “Oh, I like this,” he says, and flicks the tiny black bow at the top of her knickers. Then he runs the edge of his thumb along the black lace trim against the inside of her thigh. Glances blue grey delight up at her, and dips his head, and licks slowly along the lace.

“Oh, you,” she moans, half laughing, already melting under his mouth. 

They take a little while to work out the controls. “Maybe it needs to be charged,” he says, squinting along the curve of chrome. 

“Or maybe we need to look at the instructions.” Turning on her side, she wrangles the tiny pamphlet out of the box and unfolds it. His face next to hers, cheek to cheek, they read in silence until he crows, “Ah! Got it!” 

He taps his fingers on her thigh, weirdly boyish in his impatience. “Right! Thighs open, please! We’re coming in!”

The clitoral massager vibrates in almost silence. And even though she’s used to the intensity of sex toys, she squeaks a little when he lies against her side and puts the pronged end against the top of her cunt. “There?” he asks, glancing up at her. 

Her thighs falling wider open, she pushes one leg in between his. He grunts a little as the underside of her thigh rubs against the bulge in his trousers but she’s taken hold of his wrist, guiding the vibrator just where she needs it.

“Oh baby,” he moans involuntarily and mouths the slope beneath her collarbones that swells into breast. She gasps when the prongs find her clit through the material, bucks softly into his hand. It excites him so much more, his face turning pink. He pulls the cup of the bra aside so her right breast is bare to the soft air. “Yeah?” he murmurs as she whimpers and squirms under his hand and the vibrator. “That feel good?” He puts his wet mouth on her bare nipple, sucks soft and long. The sensation goes straight to her throbbing clit, makes her moan with the powerful clench of her cunt. 

“Take -- take this off.” She pulls at his sweater, managing to be lucid enough to say, “I love your stupid sweater, my darling, but take it the fuck off. I want to see your nipples.”

Because he breathes rough and hard when she gets her teeth on them, dragging her nails up the skin of his abdomen. A laugh in his throat as he rubs the vibrator against the material soaking through with her cunt wetness. He kisses her mouth long and filthy, lets her breathe, swallows her moans as she clutches at his chest, fingers slipping on his smooth skin. 

“Let’s take this off, shall we?” he murmurs. She doesn’t need to tell him how she wants, he’s already there, laughing softly as he gets his teeth around the top edge of her knickers. Giggling with the sheer fun and silliness of what they do together, she lifts her hips and shimmies until the scrap of plaid satin has gone and he bends his head to lick slow and deep along the damp furrow of her cunt. 

“Oh god,” and she gasps his name, a rare thing during this. 

He looks up at her, his lashes short and brown against the freckled skin at the corners of his eyes. “Yeah?” he challenges softly, and uses two fingers to delicately spread her cunt open. Cool air on her hot inner flesh, she goes weak and sinks with a sigh against the soft bed, trying to watch him down the length of her mostly naked body. The prongs slip under her clit hood, still now, and she sees the small wicked smile when he presses the button hard. 

“Oh fuck!” she gasps and bucks up. “Oh god,” she whimpers, pressing her forearm against her mouth, staring over it at him between her thighs. She’s going to be so fucking loud when she comes. It’s not that she hasn’t done this before, it’s that he has never done this to her. 

“Like that? Yeah?” he whispers to her, glistening pink mouth and glistening blue eyes, and slides up her body. With a soft cry, she puts her arms around his neck, pulling him close to bury her hot face against his shoulder. 

“Ah, you’re pretty,” he coaxes, “let me see you like this, let me see you come for me, like this.” 

Helpless with love and gratitude and so much sensual softness, she obeys. Mouths his chest and shoulder, little needy kisses, sucking at his skin, biting and gasping as he works her closer and closer, the vibrations so intense she breathes hard and fast, like pain in her chest, that orgasm so so close. He bends over her and licks a circle around her navel, tasting the soft flinching flesh there. Bites gently at the tender point of her nipple, baring both her breasts. She pulls at his hair then, wanting, pushing his mouth on her again, wanting those teeth again. 

His fingers push into her cunt, the vibrator cupped in his palm, held unrelenting against her sensitised clit. It pulses so intense she wants to scream. And he knows, his kisses get hungrier, on her neck, across her shoulders, sucking hard on the side of her throat. Shaking and squirming, eyes squeezed shut against overwhelming sensation, her first orgasm slides without pause into her second. By the third time, she’s aware of his cock pushing big and hard and hot as her hand slips over the front of his trousers. For a moment, he presses her hand there, holding it in place as they kiss hungry and wet. 

But no, that’s not what he wants. 

He gets her around the waist and flips her over like a rag doll, chest to her back, his hand reaching the small vibrator down her front between her legs. Then she does scream into the covers, then she’s trapped beneath his hard living weight, his cock riding the cleft of her bottom, then she is trapped on the unrelenting throb. She comes again, once, twice, shaking and sobbing under him as he breathes into her hair, rubbing in tiny movements against her.

He waits until she comes down, the massager switched off and lost somewhere in the covers crumpled beneath them. She’s still lying under his weight, the skin of his chest and arms slick against hers. “Baby,” he murmurs, kissing her ear, her hair. “My wanton perfect darling.” 

His hands have closed in gentle circles around her wrists. She knows, senses the impulse going through him, that dom urge simmering. For a moment, her heart hammers, but she waits to see what he does next, whether he’ll respect the fact that they haven’t yet had the discussion, haven’t yet negotiated boundaries. She’ll have no problem kicking him to his senses if he pushes it now. But she waits, alert.

He makes a slow wordless sound into her hair, sliding his hands down her arms. His voice is low and delicious. “Ready for your second secret Christmas present?”

She’s flipped over, startled into laughing. “Oh my god, what? No, I’m not sure I can stand any more!”

“Bullshit,” he retorts, his tongue slipping out to wet his lips. He’s shockingly beautiful, all hot blue eyes and crooked glistening mouth, his hair a violent mess of silvered brown.

“Look what I saved from the hamper,” he murmurs. 

It takes her a moment to focus and then she laughs shakily. “Let me taste.”

He gets a dollop on two fingers, bringing them to her mouth. Rum butter, thick and creamy and so alcoholic. She watches him watch her suck it off his fingers, his attention intense and predatory. Totally ready when he dips his head and kisses her, fierce and possessive and tender, his big hand cupping her chin.

“Where else are you going to put that on me?” she murmurs to him, breath to breath, his eyes so very blue. With a wide filthy smile, he pushes up, letting her fingers scrape down the pale freckled skin of his chest.

“Here?” He draws a sticky fragrant circle on her belly, making her laugh on an unsteady breath, so glad to be having this sort of fun with him. Her hands curling in the covers, she watches as he paints it in stripes along the inside of her thighs, one then the other. Her whole body is thrumming from her orgasms, heavy with love and pleasure.

“Here?” he offers, his voice a little ragged now. 

She knows that tone, spreads her legs wider and lifts her hips just a bit. Sees the exact moment he gets the smell of her cunt, good and rich and intoxicating. 

“Oh fuck,” he says fervently and buries his face between her legs as if he hasn’t just been there a little while ago. Hot mouth, hot cunt, she reaches down to grab a fistful of his hair, holding him in place. 

But he struggles up, gets another dollop of the creamy stuff onto his fingers. 

“Here,” he says with lewd anticipation and smears it around her clit. 

He licks it slowly off, lingering with every wet thorough stroke as she arches and moans. She’s shameless now about how loud she is, fingers in his hair as she tries and tries to fuck his beautiful wicked face. He eats her out with unashamed greed, his spit on her thighs, his face reddening as he groans and sucks on her cunt, lapping up the wet and the cream. It gets on his lashes, on his nose, smears of the stuff in his hair, across the slope of his cheekbone when he kisses his way up over the curve of her pubis and then licks along the point of her hipbone.

“Fuck me,” she says breathlessly, “fuck me, fuck me, fuck me now.”

He laughs, the sound gleeful, as he rears up, breaking her hold, and unbuckles his belt, pulling open his trousers. She’s on her knees in an instant, already reaching for the curve of his bare cock, her mouth watering. 

“Yeah, no, fuck,” he says unintelligibly. 

She gets one taste, one suck before he takes her by the shoulders and pulls her off, saying, “Not now, too late. Lie down, I want --”

Then he’s got her on the bed, turning her onto her side and pushing her thigh up so he can get at her cunt. Fingers, then mouth like she’s not already so ready, as she whines and pulls at his hair, as his tongue swirls into her, hot and filthy and wet. 

He pushes his fingers into her as he presses against her back, half twisted around, skin to skin, his breath against her ear, opening her wider for his cock that pushes hot and hard against her bottom. 

“Taste that,” he says and gives her his fingers slick with alcohol and cream and her cunt. It’s a glorious heady flavour, so exhilarating she grabs the back of his head and kisses him deep and wet with it. “Oh fuck,” he gasps into her mouth, “fuck, fuck,” and pushes his cock into her. 

Shocked at how thick he feels from this angle, she chokes but it’s caught her now, the delirium, the physical wildness. He fucks her with a jagged breathless rhythm totally unlike him. Grabs her bare tit with his big hand, his skin so hot on hers. She’s coming before she knows it, ripples of pleasure over and over as he slams and slams into her, his hand pushing her thigh higher up, stretching her further open. “God, fuck,” he snarls when he comes into her so hard she feels it hot and wet, so weirdly thrilling that her cunt throbs tight one last time around him.

____________

 

“Jesus christ, that was depraved …”

He says this after a long exhausted silence, the two of them collapsed together in the warm bed. 

“Don’t look at me,” she mumbles against the pillow, her eyes shut. “You started it …”

He chuckles. “I did, didn’t I?” He turns her towards him, scooping her closer. “D’you like your present, babe?” he asks with unconcealed anxiety.

She cracks an eye open. “I love my present,” she says sincerely. “Both of them.” 

Beaming, he kisses the curve of her shoulder and then kisses her neck. “Good. Good, good.”

When he gets out of bed to search through his coat, she realises something with dismay. “But I didn’t get you a secret present …”

“That’s all right,” he replies, at his most gallant, standing by the bed as he lights a cigarette. She gazes up at him all naked and pale in the ivory light. There are half rings of teeth marks and faint scratches on his chest, freckles on his thighs, and the sweet warm --

“Stop looking at my cock.”

“Mate, I’ve done a lot worse to your cock,” she retorts automatically which sets them both off into a fit of laughter. She’s all sticky but very happy.

A little later after they’ve washed up and lying together with the covers pulled haphazardly across them, he scrolls through his Spotify and taps a playlist. The phone croons soft Christmas music from where he places it on the bedside table and turns the lamps off. 

The room plunges into soft streetlit shadows and the small glow of the phone screen. On the dresser, the snow globe glints, making her smile into the pillow. He really did find the perfect one. It makes her feel ridiculously lucky. Blessed, as the Instagram fruitloops used to say. Still say? She doesn’t know.

Christmas is done for another year, and though she’s a little sad now, it was a good beautiful one in so many ways.

His arm curved around his head, he smokes at the ceiling, his face serene and pretty. This time she burrows closer, seeking contact, seeking sleep as the weight of the day starts to settle on her. He brings his arm down around her bare shoulders, fingers idly toying with her hair.

“That’s a good line,” he says out of nowhere.

“Hmm? Which?”

“The face one. Wait, what is it?” He brings his phone to them and slides the counter back in the song, his tiny frown of concentration lit clear. Her cheek against his heart, she traces patterns around his tiny nipples, over and over again as the song repeats.

“This line.” His voice lilts on the melody, “To face unafraid the plans that we made. I like that line,” he adds without pause, smiling at the screen and very carefully not looking at her. 

The curve of his mouth is so fine and sweet she has to touch it, trace it with the tip of her finger. His eyes flick to her face, anxious and a little searching.

“It’s a lovely line,” she replies softly. “What kind of plans do you reckon?”


	3. happy golden days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from _Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas_.

_— sydney —_

He appears in the crowd of people moving slowly out of the arrivals gate, pushing the trolley of luggage before him. Messy silvered hair and blue flannel shirt and aviator sunnies, craning to look around with a slight frown. And despite all the lectures she’s given herself on the way over, all the lectures while waiting, she shrieks and throws herself at him. Nearly knocks his shades off but he catches her and hauls her up into his arms, her legs locking around his hips as he cradles her bottom and kisses her with a desperation she recognises in herself. Her hands on his face, she kisses him softer and softer. It’s been a long horrible month. Her skin has felt starved of him.

Eventually, they become aware of the people walking around them. She rests her forehead against his, eyes shut, struggling to contain her own feelings and the intense emotion that radiates off him. “Hey,” he says, his voice rough. “I like your antlers.”

Reminded, she straightens up and beams at him. “I know, right? I got them yesterday, I’m going to wear them every second of Christmas.” 

As he lets her to her feet, she adjusts the headband, so glad to be looking at his beloved face and have him smile back just as foolishly at her. “I got you a different one, it’s in the car, come on. Was the flight horrible? What did you watch?”

Coming out of the cool of the airport is walking right into a wall of hot air. “Oh fuck me,” he says happily and shrugs off the flannel to toss it onto the trolley. As usual, he’s come with two cases more than he actually needs but he’s like that. They make their way through the blazing Sydney sunshine to the great open car park, talking all the while about the flight and the movies and all their Christmas plans. 

“I can’t go to sleep,” he insists, “I can’t. If I crash now, I’m going to be fucked for a week. What are we doing today? I can’t go to sleep. Even though I really really fucken want to …”

“Sokay,” she replies, unlocking the car, “I thought we could go shopping for decorations --”

“What,” he interrupts. “Pop the boot -- what are you saying, the place isn’t already done up to the fucken nines? Oof,” he grunts as he topples the first case into the boot of her car.

“Haha, very funny. God, what have you got in here? Did you shop all of LA and bring it home?”

“Just stuff,” he mumbles, his eyes glinting mischief. “Clothes and shit.”

Of course his phone starts going almost as soon as they drive out of the airport. Messages from friends and relatives wanting to see him and catch up. He grabs her hand and keeps hold of it the whole way even though she needs it to shift gears. She listens, eyes on the traffic, as he FaceTimes his dad and confirms Boxing Day plans. It’s the first week of December and there is that thrill of excitement in the sunshine, on the city breeze. Everything’s gearing up and focusing in on Christmas.

“Where’s my thing?” he demands when the call ends, twisting around in his seat. “I want a thing too!”

“Oh,” she remembers, pointing into his footwell where he’s chucked her shoulder bag. “There, behind my purse.”

“Oh,” he yells joyfully. “It’s red! And shiny! How’d I look?” He puts on the headband and flips down the passenger mirror, terribly pleased with his reflection. It is in fact red tinsel and wobbly red stars on stalks. “Do I look Christmassy?” he asks her, sparkling eyes and mouth curving wide. “Do I look festive?”

“Super festive,” she assures him, laughing as she returns her attention to the road.

When they turn into her street, he goes silent mid-sentence. She glances over to see him say with a quiet smile, “Fuck, I forgot how beautiful it is.” 

Heart warm, she looks ahead. Summer came early this year so the jacaranda has already burst into bloom, and now the footpaths are all slippery purple flower mulch. The old trees that line the street grow lush foliage and meet over the centre, dappling the parked cars and road surface with sunshine. The vivid spring shade of the leaves have darkened now to a glossy deep colour, still so many different greens on each tree. She parks under her tree, and they wrestle his luggage onto the footpath, squelching over the fallen jacaranda blossoms through the small gate and into the privacy of the little apartment complex. 

Now, she seems to see the place through his eyes, how the trees screen the brown brick facade from the road, how cosy her apartment must seem with its pale cream walls and golden brown bookcases. He closes the door, takes the heavy tote bag off his shoulder, and surveys the living area totally bare of Christmas decorations. “What the fuck?” he exclaims, aghast.

“Well, I was waiting for you,” she retorts. “Come on -- no, don’t sit down --”

“I need some water!”

“Oh, of course,” she subsides with some chagrin. “Sorry, my darling. I’ll get you some.”

He doesn’t wait, comes up behind her at the fridge as she pours him a glass of cold water. His mouth feathers light on the side of her neck, his big hands skimming her hips. A wordless sound in her throat, she touches his sunwarm hair. “Here. Hydrate.”

It’s too soon, somehow. There’s a weird awkwardness separating them even though she recognises the smell of his skin and can still taste him in her mouth. So she strokes his bare forearm as he drinks and watches her over the glass rim. He’s in some ratty white tee and ancient blue jeans, so lean and familiar and pretty. His big hand is on her hip, warm through the denim of her jeans, the thumb nestled against the little contour of bone, undemanding like he only needs a point of contact.

“Let me have a quick shower and then we’ll head out,” he promises her.

“Okay, cool.”

The local shopping centre isn't nearly as busy as it will be in the coming weeks. But of course the carols are going, and there are green and red lights dangling above the escalators, the electronic billboards bright with seasonal wishes and promotions. They raid the homewares store on the first level, trying to keep their arguments about theme to a civilised volume while other shoppers move carefully around the overstuffed displays. 

“No kitsch, no kitsch,” she hisses. “I won’t have it!”

“It’s not kitschy, it’s fucken cute, look at it!” He thrusts the little painted wooden Santa Claus at her. Its eyes are creepy and she tells him so. Bewildered, he examines the figurine again while she goes to inspect the garlands.

“I’m really liking the holly stuff,” she muses. “What do you think?”

He’s not listening. “What about this?” It’s the word Joy in wood painted white with two fat robins perched in and on the letters.

“Oh, I like that! Yes, definitely that.”

He beams at her, putting it in the store bucket he carries. “We can put it next to the television. What do you think of the holly stick thingies? I think we should get two.”

When they eventually leave the store, it’s with several bags that jingle and bristle poky shapes. The discussion is on wreaths, neither entirely happy with the selection on offer.

“Like, I like the snowy one,” she says as they get on the escalators, “but it -- are you hungry?”

“Fucken starving,” he replies, hitching up the bags. “Yeah, it was a bit cold, wasn’t it?”

She lays a hand, half consciously, on the centre of his chest. He’s changed into his Faulkner tee and dark jeans, his hair drying fluffy and soft. “What we need,” she tells him, “is something with a bit of red --” 

He waggles his head so the red stars wave madly around his hair, making her laugh. She had totally forgotten they were still wearing their headbands. 

“Yeah, I agree,” he chimes in, “what we need is a holly wreath but with snow -- I’ll -- my phone’s in my pocket. I’ll google it when we eat.”

The food court is comfortably chaotic, with enough variety of cuisines to distract him every five seconds. She knows what she’s getting but is happy to trail after him with the bags as he decides then changes his mind about three times. He’s tired, she can tell from the lines in his face and the occasional lapse of attention but he’s rallying well. 

“No, I’ve decided,” he says sternly, “I’m getting the fucken fajita bowl -- did I ever take you to that place in -- we should go, we’ll go next time.” He nods, all jittery with exhaustion. “No, wait, pho! I’m getting fucken pho --”

“It’s too hot --” she starts to protest.

“Don’t care! Do you know how fucken long it’s been since I had fucken good --”

Amused, she goes to order a lamb gyros, and finds him in the array of tables and chairs, already digging with enthusiasm into a very steamy bowl of beef pho. The shopfronts behind her dazzle neon bright onto the silver and red floof of his hair, all the creases and contours of his lovely face. As they eat, she moves her hand to where his rests on the table, and curls her little finger around his. He smiles at her, his eyes soft blue grey, and steals a fry from her tray. 

“Oh snap,” he exclaims a couple of minutes later, clicking his fingers, and shows her the screen of his phone. “Look!”

The chain store they were just at apparently has the perfect mistletoe snowy wreath. “Oh, what! They didn’t have that! I want it -- oh my goodness, it’s perfect! I want it so much,” she wails a little.

“Hold on.” He’s typing furiously on his phone, a frown between his brows. “I’ll -- okay, yep, they’ve got a store in the city. We could go today?” He glances at her, eager and energetic once more. “Or we could order it online -- no,” he agrees as she opens her mouth, nodding, “too fucken long, let’s just go see if they have it. The crowds won’t be so bad, surely.”

The crowds in the city are in fact terrible. The main street through the central business district under tram construction has been partially reopened for shopping season, framed in great red and green arches. They get totally lost trying to find the store nestled mysteriously between two shopping centres all aglitter with curtains of gold, and cherry blossom trees of white light. Even with the ferocious aircon, it’s hot and sweaty business tramping with the bags through the crowds. Finally he stops and charms a concierge into giving them directions. And it turns out the shop is tucked away in a spot she didn’t even know existed.

After all that, their perfect wreath is out of stock. She nearly bursts into tears, hastily cuddled into his side as the bemused shop assistant looks on. 

“Sokay, babe,” he says, kissing her forehead. “It’s early yet, they’ll get them back in stock. We’ll keep checking. That’s right, isn’t it?” He directs this at the assistant. “You’ll have some more soon?”

He’s using his regal tone, his voice pitched deeper, consonants edged and precise. She doesn’t have to look at his face to know the poor assistant is being fixed with a very cold blue stare. Somehow the red wobbly stars do not dilute its effect. 

They’re assured that yes, definitely next week there’ll be lots more. So they buy a few more Christmas branches as solace, and he has to guide her away from the snow globes.

“But they’re so lovely,” she whines. “Look, this one’s so small. It’s a smol!” 

“You’ve already got one at home --”

“And I love it,” she announces, with such fierce loyalty that makes him giggle.

“-- yes, and babe, you’ve got a second in one of these bags. Wait, just wait. Let’s just place everything and then we’ll see.”

It’s hard to argue with this logic. Still as they make their way out of the store, she chuckles. “You didn’t have to terrify the poor shop person.”

“I didn’t,” he replies mildly. “I was perfectly courteous. I was the proper fucken customer. You were the one going into hysterics.”

She makes a face. “I just really want that wreath. It’s exactly what we should have.”

“And we’ll get it,” he assures her with a fond smile.

“Hey, let’s get something cold to drink. Come on, I know where we should go.”

Max Brenner on the top level of the blissfully cool shopping centre is relatively empty for this time of the day. They step off the escalators, squinting against the neon forest of Christmas trees, and go in to order. 

Peanut butter iced chockie for her, Danish toffee frappe for him. While they wait in the rich brown and orange surrounds, breathing in the chocolate fumes, he nudges her with a grin. “Pralines?”

She blushes. “Maybe. Ooh, see if they have an advent calendar! They had one a few years ago.”

“Enough,” he declares when they leave Max Brenner, trying to juggle everything. “I cannot physically carry any more stuff! Let’s go home and put some carols on and put this shit up.”

He doesn’t mean carols in the traditional sense of the word, he means Christmas music. In the car, the backseat heaped with bags, he leans forward and sets her Spotify playlist going. “I tweaked it this year,” she tells him as she drives them out of the underground car park.

“Oh yeah?” Interested, he’s scrolling as he sucks on his frappe. 

“Yeah, lots of Carpenters this year.”

He looks up at her with a wide melting smile, his brows and eyes so very pretty. The same song is passing between them, connecting them with memories of London. “Good choice, darling,” he says, his voice slow and resonant.

She giggles, reaching out to flick her finger across his cheek. He tries to kiss it and misses, laughing as she returns her attention to city traffic.

“So have you sorted your Christmas menu yet?” She’s half teasing. Not really, because he takes his food very seriously.

“Mm, yeah, I -- oh! Oh fuck! Brain freeze,” he howls, clutching his head. The red stars slide to one side, there’s a lot of whimpering and grotesque faces. She glances over at this drama, slightly concerned and thinking how very much he looks like his little daughter right now.

They spend the afternoon putting up the decorations. Or rather, he puts them up and she loads the battery packs of each set of twinkle lights, twining them carefully around each garland of greenery before handing it up to him. The sunshine glows the white curtains fluttering on the breeze as the music swirls joy around them. Her heart thuds happily at the sight of him in her apartment, when he turns on the short stepladder and says he thinks the gold berries should be facing the other way. She agrees and goes to make a list of what else they need, muttering to herself, “A never ending supply of batteries.”

She unwraps the snow globe he got her last year, and places it beside the audio dock. Then frowns and goes to bring the Joy sign out of the bag. The two ornaments look a little lost as they flank the dock. As he grunts with satisfaction on the other side of the living room, she says aloud, “We need more ornaments. This isn’t enough.”

“Yeah? Yeah, okay. Come and look at this.”

When the place is all garlands of greenery with little golden bells, and frosted branches with little red tinkle bells, and little golden star lights twined through every possible thing, they unpack the tree. It’s not a huge one, just small enough for the living area. She gets out the old hanging ornaments, so glad they’ve bought more. His head by hers, they pick through the broken ones and decide on a theme of white and red and green. “Well, the tree’s green,” he points out intelligently. “So good, let’s do it.”

No tinsel allowed. When it’s done, the tree glows pretty and interesting with little red ribbons and little white doves and little red robins and little white baubles. “Bird theme,” he exclaims which collapses them both into laughter.

“Oh I love it,” she manages through tears of mirth, clutching at him. He curves his arm around her shoulders, his body shaking with giggles. As she gazes at his profile, all her softness pressed against him, he shifts his attention to her and his smile goes very tender.

“I’m so glad you came home for Christmas,” she says, her voice unsteady.

His smile deepens. “Me too,” he replies and kisses her with an exquisite gentleness, tasting of chocolate and toffee and him.

It’s about five in the evening when he allows himself to crash. She turns the fan on, and closes the door on him curled up in her bed. They had ordered in dinner so she washes up and puts the garbage out, humming along to the orchestral swells of the Carpenters Christmas collection on low. 

When she comes back in and turns from the sink, drying her hands on the kitchen towel, she knows she was right to wait for him before putting the decorations up. Her apartment gleams with beauty now, all the pretty comforting colours of the festive season, red and green and white and glowing gold. 

Christmas has arrived because he’s here.

He sleeps soundly through the night, snoring softly on his back in his little white singlet and dark boxer briefs all rumpled and sweet. She takes off her reindeer antlers and hooks them over the iron head railing of her bed next to the red tinsel band. His phone is charging next to his smokes and sunnies on the bedside table. The fan whirs cool air through the dark mauve shades of a Sydney night. Across the room are the shapes of his suitcases by her dresser. And as she snuggles down beside him, drawing the cool sheet over them, he mumbles in his sleep and burrows closer to her.

It’s going to be a perfect Christmas.

____________

 

The social whirl begins the very next day. As it was in London, so it is in Sydney.

But first things first. The next morning, she’s up before him, for once. She’s in the kitchen, buttering toast, when he emerges. She hears him as the song changes, and points to the side. “Hello. Want coffee? There’s coffee in the --”

“In a bit,” he says behind her, and swings her around. Flash of blue eyes, brown lashes and freckled skin as he tilts his head and kisses her with unmistakable intent. The knife clatters somewhere, unheeded. She moans, melting into him, her arms twining around his head. “Missed you,” he groans, his hands sweeping down her back, and then he’s picking her up, setting her on the kitchen counter. 

“Oh,” she gasps, wrapping her legs around him and hooking him in closer between her thighs. He holds her face and kisses her deep as he rubs his cock slow and long against the notch of her cunt through the thin fabric of her shorts. Her tanktop catches and rides up between them, making her gasp into the hot demand of his mouth, making her bite at his lips. “Fuck, fuck,” he’s saying raggedly, looking down when he grabs the edge of her tanktop and pulls it up to bare one breast and then the other.

“Not fair,” she whines, tugging at his tee. “You got dressed.”

He chuckles low. “It comes off.”

As it is, neither can wait that long. Her tanktop is caught under her arms, sun brazen on her nipples, shorts discarded on the floor. He unzips his board shorts, takes his cock out, and fucks her hard and desperate on the bright counter. She gets wet very fast and is very fucking loud because it’s her home and their private space. Arms hooked around his back, she holds on as he ruts into her, half laughing and gasping with the sheer exhilaration of this. He responds to her, blue eyes bright, his mouth catching hers with wet and hot, the muscles of his back working under the thin tee. His cock feels so much bigger but then they’ve been apart for a while, it’s like she’s forgotten, or maybe her body’s forgotten.

No, she hasn’t. The smell of him, that particular rub of cockskin and soft cunt, the taste of his uneven lips. It’s all a familiar intoxicating bliss, and she soaks it up like sunshine, happiness flickering through her blood.

“Fuck, baby,” he says, watching her face, and pulls her to the edge of the counter, tilting her hips up so his cock drives in deeper. “Oh god,” she cries out, but he’s got her, holding her strong and sure. She braces her arm on the counter, fucking him back with her own momentum because his cock is catching that lovely little knot of nerves in her cunt. She’s chasing pleasure again, feeling the sting of her hair flicking against her cheek, the slight film of sweat on her naked tits. 

He takes one hand off her bottom and squeezes her right breast, groaning with colour high on his cheekbones as he rubs her nipple and then dips his head, so greedy. She arches up, whimpering and working herself on his cock, so his mouth closes on her nipple. Her fingers are digging into his upper arms, not caring whether it hurts him. 

“No, wait,” he mutters, and shifts position somehow so he’s got his hand grasping her calf. “Like this, do this for me,” he tells her, his mouth bitten and so vulnerable. His hand slides up the underside of her calf all smooth and bare, extending her leg up so he places her foot on his shoulder. It stretches her cunt open in a way that makes her moan and want to fall back on the counter. “Oh god, fuck,” she gasps but he holds her upright and kisses her fiercely. “Like this,” he urges and fucks her harder, his cockhead hitting her just where she wants it over and over again until she’s crying out and coming in rushes of hot and wet on his cock, until he’s bracing himself on his hands either side of her on the counter, shuddering and moaning into her.

“Missed you so fucken much,” he whispers a little while later, pretty much lying on her. She combs her fingers through his short gleaming hair, her mouth curving as he smiles lazily at her. 

“Yeah, I reckon,” she drawls. He bites her gently for that.

Any remaining awkwardness entirely dissolves from then on. He’s as tactile as ever, holding her hand, clasping the small of her back, playing with the ends of her hair, as they meet up with his friends and hers for brunch and picnics and barbecues in suburbs across the city over the next few weeks. 

It takes some serious organisation, balancing all these social engagements with the demands of Christmas preparation and completing the decorations. They go for brunch in Surry Hills, and on the way back have to stop to investigate this posh providore he’s found that does the specific roast he’s considering for Christmas Day lunch. When it’s dinner in Woolwich, they detour via the factory outlet centre and pick up a whole heap of ornaments before heading to the restaurant by the water. 

The wreath is in stock as promised, carried home with particular care and pinned to her apartment door with ribbon and a drawing tack. It’s absolutely perfect, snowy and green and popping with so much red. 

Except it’s too delicate to take the weight of the battery pack for the glisten lights.

“Oh jeez!” he bellows, rescuing the falling wreath as she grabs her face and shrieks. But it’s okay, no damage done. 

As he pushes the pin back into the wood, his expression fierce with effort, she looks for a nearby spot to fix the battery pack. “What, should we like tape it to the door or something?” she asks dubiously.

He makes a face. “Nah, that’d be so fucken ugly. Let’s see if we can -- is there --” he straightens up and peers at the top of the door. “I reckon we could shove it up here where it can’t be seen, what do you reckon?”

Her brows shoot up, she points out all the things wrong with that. And it turns out he’s quite right. The battery pack fits neatly between the door and the jamb, taped down.

“Awesome,” she says happily when he’s on the stepladder, dusting his hands with a pleased smile. “You can be the one to change those batteries when they run out.”

When they turn the little starry lights on, the wreath blazes in a spiky white gold circle, so breathtakingly beautiful she hugs his arm and squeals a little. He laughs, putting his arm around her and kissing her hair.

Pretty soon, the apartment reaches the optimum level of Christmas decoration. Holly garlands dangle on either ends of the main living room window, twisting rich red berries and spiky green pine needles, with tiny golden stars glowing bright. Little glittery gold reindeer on the sideboard and next to the television. One new snow globe silver and regal on a bookshelf, her special one from him next to the audio dock, and the smol on the table by the front door where the sunlight glints the little gold Santa inside. One miniature snowy pine tree sits on the coffee table with a couple of crystal tealight holders, another on top of the microwave. A fir branch with gold berries fixed over the kitchen window. The advent calendar propped up on the kitchen counter against a glass bowl of red baubles. Woven copper star lights strung across each bookcase. 

All this looks surprisingly decent with the white neon cursive text on the wall which says This Moment. She hadn’t expected so.

In the bedroom, a snowy green branch with red berries and a velvet robin sits in the swoop of warm white icicle lights across the curtains. The robin keeps toppling over like some drunken Christmas fool, and she has to keep turning it up the right way. He attaches an icy branch with green leaves and little red sleigh bells to the pedestal fan, hoping aloud that the movement will make it jingle. It doesn’t but they both still love the effect.

When they’re satisfied with the decorations, he turns his full attention to Christmas Day lunch, frothing over with plans and recipes that he messages and shows her at all hours, making her watch snippets of cooking programs on YouTube. It’s still a work in progress, he keeps changing his mind as he gets caught by some new possibility.

Excited as she is, she can’t help but point out, “For someone who’s not very good at organising himself, this is a little ambitious, isn’t it?”

They’re heading to an afternoon barbecue, and there’s some fancy marinated meat in a casserole dish sealed with foil in the backseat. His creation, of course. 

Even with the aviator shades in place, he gives her a scathing look. “Are **_you_** going to do it?”

“Nuh,” she exclaims, indignant. “Why I got to do all the cooking at Christmastime, cos I’m the little woman? Turn right here.”

“I know! I fucken know Randwick, excuse you!” He palms the steering wheel, red stars wobbling and his mouth twitching with humour. “Sokay,” he says, so much irony in the contours of his lovely face. “I’ll be the little woman.”

“You do that,” she replies cheerily, adjusting her antlers. “And in the new year, we’ll abolish all prescriptive gender roles.”

Never one to let a good final line go unchallenged, he quips, “Yeah, I’ll teach you to make potato salad.”

“Ew, gross.”

Under a perfect blue summer sky, she lies on a deck chair as conversations circle and cross around her in an Australian backyard. Green grass below, the smell of barbecue rich and charring on the breeze fluttering her blue silk top, skimming over her dark blue jeans. Through her shades, she sees him appear at her side, this beautiful sweet man with red stars bobbing around his head who hands her a glass of Pimms sangria and bends down to kiss her mouth. The song playing is Freddie’s angsty ode to Christmas, aching and precious. She puts her hand up to his face, cupping his freckled cheek as she kisses him back, love a fierce hot pulse in her chest.

_____________

 

A few days after he arrives, he goes to visit his teenager and her mum. “Listen, you should come with,” he says with some anxiety, running his hands through his hair.

From the couch, she waves a languid hand. “Nah, you go have some quality father-daughter time. I’ve got presents to wrap.”

“Oh?” He perks up, all cheeky and inquisitive.

Laughing, she brandishes a cushion in his general direction. “Piss off, you! You are not the only person I buy presents for.”

“Aww,” he subsides and kisses her quickly before he leaves.

Luckily this year he can’t inflict horrible Christmas sweaters on his kids. And even though she knows he’s unpacked plenty of presents for them out of his suitcases, she feels quite sorry for him, offering a suggestion. “Let’s go to Peter Alexander. His Christmas collection this year is mad enough for you and cute enough for me. We’re sure to find them stuff there.”

So the pile of presents grows around the bird tree. And because he is a resourceful person with access to the internet, he has found a weather-appropriate sweater alternative. One day, he comes out of the bedroom wearing board shorts, a huge cheesy grin, and a grey tanktop featuring Santa in shades and the caption Where My Hos At. 

Despite herself, she bursts into laughter, clapping her hand over her mouth.

“I knew it, I knew it,” he crows and rushes back into their room. “Look what I got you,” he emerges to say, holding out a bright red top. Also Santa in shades, this one with the text Judging You.

“Hey!” she yells, offended. But it’s totally true and she loves it, wriggling into the top that’s just a little too tight. His smile tips so very alluring and wicked as she comes upright on her knees, bare toes curling into the couch. She shimmies deliberately. “Like what you see?”

“Always,” he murmurs, running his hand into her hair as he kisses her with very lewd promise. 

Despite their agreement that the apartment needs no more decoration, bunches of mistletoe keep mysteriously appearing everywhere, and he keeps grabbing her for kisses. It’s giddy and terribly flattering, makes them both somewhat voracious for no other reason than it’s summer and they’re together alone. 

As the temperatures inch higher every day, she takes to wearing long cotton singlets with nothing underneath. When they’re on the couch watching the full rotation of Christmas movies, he’ll have a beer in one hand, and his other hand will inevitably slide between her spreading thighs. He rubs her cunt until she comes with a soft arching moan, while he’s kissing her throat and fastening his cold mouth on her breast, soaking the fabric through.

One time, in the middle of Miracle On 34th Street the original, he glances across and murmurs, “Show me.” She goes a little scarlet with shock but, still amused, she pulls up the hem of her long top. He grins like some feral bare chested elf, and runs his fingertips around the ache of her cunt, over and over again, his tongue flicking to wet his uneven lips, until she grabs his wrist impatiently and he laughs.

“Hold on,” she says, remembering, “I wanna try something. I saw this the other day. Let me see if I can do it. Cock out, please.”

“Aw hell yes,” he replies, entirely too delighted to comply. 

The movie continues, quite ignored, while she strokes him to full hardness and he mutters dirty appreciation at her, his mouth glistening. Then she stands up and, with her back to him, straddles his thighs and lowers herself onto his cock. 

“Oh jesus fuck,” he gasps, his hands clutching her hips, the flimsy material of her singlet crushed under his palms. She whimpers in response, loving how big he feels from this angle, how she can work her wet powerful cunt on him, setting her own undulating rhythm. 

When she glances over her shoulder at him, he’s got his head tipped back against the couch. Sluttish mouth open, blue glittering through his lashes as he strokes her back feverishly, and watches the curves of her arse as she rides his cock. “Jesus, fuck, fuck,” he chants, clearly not thinking, “yeah, fuck, harder. Fuck me harder.” 

She reaches back to brace her hands on his bare pecs, rolling her hips deep and ceaseless so he gasps and gasps in time with her. He squeezes her arse, holding onto the soft flesh in a way that reminds her yes, this woman’s body is hers, that all her flesh excites him. As if the thought passes to him or maybe because he’s that predictable, he reaches one hand up and around to grab her left breast. “Oh,” she gasps because that’s changed the angle, because suddenly her arse is cradled in his lap and she’s dragging both his hands to her tits, moaning shamelessly as the singlet rides up above her thighs and she moves and moves on his cock. “Fuck, fuck,” he says roughly against the bone of her shoulder. 

“Fuck,” he says with a certain different fierceness and seizes her chin, pulling her face around so he can kiss her with a hot hard hunger. It makes her think maybe he wants control, maybe he wants her on her back. But no, when she grinds down on him, he fucks his cock up into her and bites at her mouth. “Yeah, like that,” he mutters, sliding his big hands all the way down her sides, grasping her flesh through the thin cotton fabric as he goes. “Yeah,” when she rolls her hips and cries out as her cunt clenches wet and wet around him, as pleasure surges near. He changes their rhythm as he gets closer and closer, fingers hard on her hips, quick shallow thrusts, quicker and quicker until he grabs her at the throat and waist to hold her still and comes into her with a deep rough groan. 

Breathless, she stays motionless, her cunt pulsing with sensation, feeling his spunk slipping wet out and onto the inside of her thighs. Waiting and waiting. Until he makes that soft animal sound and nuzzles at her throat, his hands going tender on her. Then she curves her arm around the back of his head, turning her face to kiss him and murmur sweet comfort.

When they return their attention to the movie, all sticky and sated, cuddled up on the couch, she strokes his chest, around the nipples, and asks, somewhat cheekily, “Did you like that?”

Of course he had, very loudly. But now he screws up his mouth, saying, “Yeah, but I can’t see your tits like that.”

“Didn’t stop you this morning,” she says wryly. That morning, he was the one doing the straddling, across the back of her thighs as he held down her hips and fucked her in the sheets. She had glanced over at one point and seen them in her bedroom mirror, how he looked like he was riding the curves of her arse, so intent.

Now he grins unabashedly and kisses her with his tender strange mouth. “I liked that, that was fun.”

She hugs him, squashing her tits against his chest the way she knows he likes. That one ear of his is so funny, the curling shape of it. As she nibbles on the edge, he fondles her breast and suddenly exclaims, “Wait, how’d he go free? What’d they say? Where did all those letters come from? Go back!”

She sighs and reaches for the remote. It’s not like he hasn’t seen the movie before.

____________

 

When he’s happy, he sings. Loudly and constantly. And naturally it’s Christmas songs now. Dean Martin and Ella Fitzgerald and the Carpenters and even that Lee Kernaghan song bellowed without a hint of irony. The red stars bob as he dances in his shorts and absurd Christmas tanktop, trying out recipes in the kitchen. 

From her laptop on the couch, she props her elbow on her knee, chin in hand as she watches him with a bemused smile. It never ceases to amaze her how someone who has professed to be deeply cynical and pessimistic in the past can still have such capacity for pure fun.

It’s his idea to make a day trip out of Sydney for food purposes. Well, she may have suggested the restaurant a while ago, and then he got very excited when he looked up the website and discovered it’s farm to table as well. Now they’re driving down the motorway, aircon blasting, and he’s going, “Two hats! They have two fucken hats, and not even in some snotty Sydney --”

“Hey,” she says without heat, tweaking the Spotify playlist for this roadtrip.

“-- no, you know what I mean,” he insists. “I love the fact that we don’t have to go into fucken town and into some posh as fuck white ass colonial hotel with the concierge looking down their nose at us like eurgh” -- there’s undoubtedly a face being pulled at this moment but she’s focused on finding the right version of a song.

“Anyway, I’m excited,” he announces. “What’s going on, where’s the music?”

“Nearly done. There. Yep.”

She sets it to play and wriggles back into her seat, so looking forward to the day. As the Otis Redding song begins, he nods with approval, his attention on the road. And then: “Did you read that thing I sent you?”

“The turkey thing? I really don’t think we should --”

“No, not that. No, we’re doing the roast. No, no, the other thing. The Jimmy Stewart piece --”

“Oh. That,” she says darkly, scowling out the passenger window. 

He grins over at her. “I thought you’d like that take on it. You didn’t like it? You didn’t think it was interesting?”

She sighs. “No, it was. I did like it. Lots of very good points, and I loved the whole --”

“Bit about the darker side of the American Dream? Yeah, I thought you would,” he says, quite cocky.

“But I still despise them both.”

“Of course.” He fishes out his smokes from the console and lights up, one hand still on the steering wheel. “Why? Cos he’s a shitty actor?”

Shocked, she stares at him. “You do not think Jimmy Stewart is a shitty actor.”

“No,” he says with a serene smile. “But you do.”

“Oh.” He’s being reasonable about this, how very aggravating. “Well!” she exclaims. “He is! He’s like the Fifties equivalent of Zooey Deschanel --”

“Forties.”

“Whatever! There’s like zero effort there. Except for Harvey, possibly. And I’m not even saying go to the other idiotic extreme like that hack Brando --”

“Oooh, careful,” he warns.

“Don’t worry,” she says dryly, her temper evaporating. “I know better than to disparage your beloved Bobby.” 

Because obviously Brando’s direct acting descendant is De Niro. And according to the Seventies tragic stinking up her car with smoke, no one is finer than De Niro. 

“Fucken right.” He chortles, the cigarette dangling from his lower lip. “Oh! Fuck, I love this song!” He jabs excitedly at the volume control on the steering wheel, and she gazes with perfect happiness at the passing scenery as the car fills with the sound of Chris Rea’s warm rough voice. It’s the perfect driving song, the perfect Christmas song, such a pretty melody and visual lyrics, and of course the music slut beside her has to join in.

In the relative privacy of the car, they sing nearly all the drive through the green hills and deep ravines of the countryside, the blue sky arching ahead all the way to the horizon, guardrails and trees zipping past them. She passes him a rapidly thawing bottle of water, watching him stub the cigarette out. 

Aviator sunnies, clean shaven, a collared blue shirt with jeans, and the silver signet ring back on his little finger. They’ve swapped headbands today, and she reckons the gold sparkly antlers make him look just smart enough for their fine dining experience, his hair spiked with a little product. 

“Thanks, babe.” He slides her that possessive smile that tilts ever so slightly towards smug, like he knows she is entirely his. This doesn’t annoy her nearly as much as it probably should. Rather it suffuses her with warmth, her own smile tipping up at him.

“Anyway,” she continues with their sporadic rambling conversation, now about a mutual friend, “I don’t see why it should matter. It’s not --”

“Yeah,” he agrees, “it’s not like she’s in it for the humpy pumpy --”

“Oh my god,” she groans, mortified. “I can’t believe I have sex with you.”

Which of course sends him into a fit of giggles, all crinkly eyes and shaking shoulders. 

It’s an afternoon booking and the weather is not that much cooler in the country, but at least there’s some relief from Sydney humidity. When they get out of the car, he holds his hand out to her, telling her some story about some chef he met somewhere, and she smiles as he touches the small of her back, his cologne mingling with her perfume as they walk into the restaurant. She’s wearing a white and blue striped silk top, and slim blue trousers with red brogues, she knows they make a classy as fuck couple in this posh out of the way place. Especially since the red tinsel and stars match her shiny shoes.

The decor is weirdly minimalist, even barer than she remembers from the last time. But they take pix of each course as they arrive, gramming the whole meal for foodie friends who were really rather overexcited to hear of this trip. No alcohol this time, they both opt for the juice pairing which today, the hostess tells them, is Indigenous themed. 

This turns out to be juices like black grape kombucha, smoked cherry, and lemon myrtle lemonade. Their favourite is the pear and acacia. “God,” he exclaims halfway through the glass, “I could drink this all fucken day!”

“I know, right? So good.” 

The menu card makes them both laugh. It has a picture of a reindeer with a big red bow tied onto one antler. And the dishes listed are the perfect blend of unusual, pretentious, and twists on Australian classics. “Shrimp on the barbie,” he points, chuckling. Which turns out to be barbecued shrimp with avocado and little shaved pickles and a deep pink seafood sauce.

“So Strayan,” she marvels, loving it.

“So clever. So so fucken clever.”

There’s a lobster and caviar jaffle that makes him groan with pleasure, then a sort of barley porridge thing which is a bit of a signature dish with yolk and whey. The house bread with smoked butter is so delicious they ask for more. 

“It’s not that we don’t like the food,” he assures the hostess, being his exuberant self, all sparkling eyes and lovely smile and hint of a lisp. “We fucken love the food, love it,” he says emphatically. “But the bread is just so fucken amazing --”

“Yes, please don’t think we’re plebs,” she interjects, laughing. “We’re really not.”

“You may not be,” he quips. “I am.”

“Oh really? I thought you were going for suave sophisticated today, with the product in the hair and errything.”

“Please.” He flicks his head, totally playing up to their audience, his mouth sly and fine. “I just roll out of bed and it looks like this.”

Somewhat dazzled by their comedic routine, the hostess brings them more bread in a furry wallaby pouch thing, and a small mountain of smoked butter. He’s overjoyed, while she tries not to be a little grossed out by the pouch even though the fur looks so soft and touchable.

By the time the pork chop with gratin and salad arrives, she can’t manage any more. “No, seriously,” he insists, “try the salad. Look at it, that’s apple. It’s so good, try it.” Sliced fresh green apple on crisp lettuce smeared with a hint of creamy stuff. He’s right, it’s wonderful so she has that instead of the pork chop.

The restaurant is almost entirely full, and they spend the time between courses surreptitiously examining the couples and families at tables around them, trying to work out the dynamics. He makes up terrible stories about them when he’s not being uncannily perceptive. She laughs, watching him with unconcealed adoration, linking their fingertips.

There’s a huge painting on the wall beyond him, so textured and interesting it reminds her of the textures and colours of the Australian landscape she loves so much. “I really should go back to drawing,” she tells him randomly. “I want to paint. Like that sort of stuff, but trees and stuff, you know? Like the trees on my street.”

“Good,” he says without hesitation. “Why don’t you?”

“Talent,” she sighs. 

He laughs lightly. 

To their delight, one of the desserts is an eggnog sorbet with raisins soaked in rum. He points his spoon at her, the silver signet ring glinting, his smile wide and affectionate. “Remember?”

“Of course. Ooh, yum.”

The final dessert is an incredibly dense Christmas pudding with a brandy snap dotted in sour cream and something green. “I fucken give up,” he says with a groan, slumping back in his chair. “Can’t take any more, eaten too much. Can’t fucken do it.”

“Ha,” she says but pats his hand. “You did well, my darling.”

He wants to go for a walk around the restaurant grounds, to see their herbs and vegetables and pastures. It’s all very fragrant and pretty as the day shades towards dusk, the summer heat gathering cool under the blue skies darkening over the trees. “D’you reckon we could score a bottle of that juice?” he mutters to her, his hand clasping hers.

“If anyone can,” she murmurs back, trying not to be overheard by their twelve year old guide.

Of course he succeeds and crows about it for half the drive home. She laughs, quietly happy. The bottle of pear and acacia juice is nestled in the backseat under the jacket he didn’t need. In her lap are the gingerbread biscuits they were given on their way out, surprisingly dark and rich looking.

“What’s that shape they’re in?” he asks, prodding her thigh. “Show me.”

She holds them up, puzzled until she remembers. “Wallaby! Remember, it said on the menu.”

“Oh yeah!” His expression clears, eyes flicking to the motorway winding up the hill before them. “Open one, I want to taste it.”

“You cannot possibly be hungry,” she retorts, unsealing one of the packets.

“I’m not, I just want a taste.”

She breaks off a piece of wallaby gingerbread and reaches across to put it in his opened mouth. The music trips a jaunty melody, shivering the cool air in the car. Everything seems sweet and heavy, pure contentment.

“Ooh cherries!” he exclaims when he spots the handwritten sign in the bright purple and golden shades just before sunset. He moves them across the lanes to pull into the rest stop where the orchard van is open for sale. 

She hops out to join him, making their way through the couples and families carrying boxes back to their various cars and utes. The conversations of eagerness and relaxed banter are so familiar, part of this Strayan -- or is it just the state of New South Wales? -- tradition of stopping on the motorway to buy trays of fruit in the summer months, of gorging themselves sick with mangoes and cherries on the couch in that meandering week between Christmas and New Year.

As the traffic roars past and the breeze comes down from the green hills, she slides her hand absently along his back as they inspect the fruit on offer. “Two boxes,” he tells the young kid in the open van.

“It’s not going to last til Christmas,” she warns.

“I know,” he assures her. “We’ll take some to dinner and stuff.”

“But yeah,” he adds thoughtfully when they’re trotting back to the car with a box each, “that’s a good idea. We should have fruit for Christmas Day.”

Buckling into her seat, she regards him with some alarm as he starts the engine. “Wait, why did you say it like that? Oh my god, what do you have planned for Christmas dessert? Please don’t set the place on fire.”

He laughs uproariously, driving them with care out of the rest stop. “Cherries jubilee, that’s a fucken awesome idea! But it’s not very Christmassy, nah I don’t want that.”

“Are we gunna have a pav?” she teases.

“You take the piss, babe,” he replies, his smile all indulgent. “But it’s a good old festive tradition.”

“Pavlova for New Year, pudding for Christmas, come on. And we’ll get some lovely ice cream or sorbet, we can get some Messina,” she says, all sing-song and coaxing.

“Oh my god,” he yells with sudden inspiration. “They’ll have special Christmas flavours! Imagine! Oh my fucking god, yes, we gotta do Messina, we gotta!”

Really, she’s getting quite good at distracting him into doing things her way. It’s probably a power she should only use for good.

____________

 

Sydney summer is all sunshine and blue skies and fresh breezes until the temperatures spike into hellish. On the awful days when they don’t have to venture out to see people, they have no energy to do anything but lie on her bed, dozing or talking idly about nothing. The window is shut tight against the outside, they’re naked as the fan on medium blasts cold whirling air across them. 

In the worst of mid-afternoon, he gets up to fetch the gel packs from the fridge, wrapping them in tea towels as he returns to the bedroom. 

As she flops over and places the freezing thing on the back of her neck, he says, “You really fucken need aircon.”

She snorts into the satin pillowcase. “You Melbournites are just weak.”

This is totally inaccurate but she doesn’t care. As it is, he chortles in some demented fashion. “In Sydney we suffer like men!”

Which has her laughing way too hard into the pillow.

He lies beside her, a few blessed inches of cool air between them. On his stomach like her, the wrapped cold pack on his nape. She can see the same relief go through him, the trickle of sensation all the way down his spine and radiating out. His face is turned towards her, eyes shut, his lashes so delicate brown. And now his mouth curves in that fine sweet way. 

She has to touch him, just her fingertips to where his cheekbone pushes against skin. From the living room, Doris Day is crooning about silver bells in a city of snow. And she realises he is so very naked, tanned on his arms and legs, but so pale and freckled everywhere else the sun doesn’t touch. So she inches a little closer, leaning her chin on her arm draped across the pillow, and trails her fingertips over the sculpted bone of his shoulder, tracing the pattern of freckles.

His smile deepens, softness between them circled by the pretty music. And she lifts up on an elbow so she can reach her arm across, slowly drawing whirls along the lovely shapes of his back. His skin like a textured living vellum she could ink and colour, smooth and cool, so finely grained and gleaming slightly in the diffused golden sun. “Ivory and gold,” she murmurs, “what’s that line?”

“Mmm?” Lashes glimmering blue, he touches the back of his fingers to her side. “What line?” His voice is like rough honey, reminding her.

“Whisky faced and honey slow,” she says half to herself, mesmerised by the deep indent of his back and the rise of his perfect lovely bottom. He makes a soft wordless sound in his throat, and she becomes aware that he’s stroking the back of his hand up her torso to the under curve of her naked breast.

“I like that,” he says dreamily. “Where’s that from?” His spine moves subtly under her caress, the muscles changing around that delicious dip at the small of his back. She’s barely listening to him, her mouth watering slightly with the need to taste. He’s so beautiful and so touchable, his skin prickling as she traces all the way down his spine and along the curve of one bare cheek to the top of his thigh, then all the way back up. She wishes there was gold glitter trailing from her fingertip, so she could draw him, on him, all the rich contours and textures of him.

“Mm?”

“The whisky line,” he slurs. His own fingertip is shaping a loop around her soft nipple, distracting her with sensation and arousal.

“Oh.” She glances down at herself. “Tim Buckley. But no, that’s not -- ivory and gold, what’s that? Your lips --”

Now completely distracted, she turns onto her back and squeals, flinching up off the cold pack. Amused, he takes it away, tucking it under her pillow. 

“Your lips are like ivory and gold,” she puzzles, “no, that’s not right.”

He moves closer, tufting silvered hair and the perfect line of his nose. He breathes on her left nipple, tracing the shadow of veins in the pale curve of her breast. She watches him, her mind full of words circling around.

“It’s Velvet Goldmine,” she’s saying, stroking up his arm. “Which means it’s Oscar Wilde. Oh god, this is going to bug me.”

“Google it,” he murmurs and she scoffs, neither of them moving. In the living room, the song slides into another soft and warm. He opens his mouth and she watches as the tip of his pink tongue slides around the shape of her nipple, distantly aware that this is making her soft and wet between her thighs. It’s nice, this unhurried enjoying of each other.

But then she remembers. “It’s too hot to fuck,” she whines, shoving away from him on the damp sheets.

“This is why you need aircon,” he says, flopping into his back. “Fuck it,” he decides abruptly, “we’re getting aircon in the new year. **_I’ll_** get you aircon.”

“Fuck you, I’ll get my own aircon,” she says automatically, still trying to remember the whole quote.

He turns his head towards her, a smile in his voice. “Well, then do it. Then we can fuck.” 

She’s too exhausted by the heat to respond, fumbling around the pillow for the gel pack that’s gone all tepid and useless now.

When the sun goes down, she goes to investigate what’s the coolest thing they can eat. 

“I can chop up a salad,” he suggests, coming up behind her, his voice soft as he curves his hand to the shape of her hipbone.

“Don’t know if we have enough fresh stuff,” she replies, staring gloomily into the fridge. They’re still naked, the artificial cold a delicious agony. The fruit boxes have long been finished, consumed half by them and half distributed between their friends.

“Order in?” he offers, stroking her gently. She can tell he still wants to fuck, the need jitters under her skin too.

“Nah, the poor driver who has to come out to us in this heat.”

He laughs quietly, and kisses her temple. “You big sook.”

They have a makeshift meal of yoghurt and diced cucumber, bits of rosemary lavash he finds in the cupboard, and leftover keftedes from Greek takeaway a few nights ago. Sitting naked and crosslegged on a blue crocheted throw cast upon the floor, talking about the Carpenters as the Christmas waltz swirls around them and the twinkle lights keep time. 

When they’re done and she’s returning the throw to the couch, he says from the kitchen, “Snickers or Mars Bar?”

“Ooh. Snickers, please.”

He brings her a glass of cold water even though she didn’t ask, and kisses her cheek lightly. As she drinks, she loops her arm around his waist, keeping him where he is. He’s listening to the song as he unwraps the chilled Mars Bar straight from the fridge, and she knows from that little frown that he’s still thinking about Karen Carpenter.

“Come along,” she says softly, and leads him back to the bedroom. As he gets into bed, she slides the window open so the southerly change rushes in, bringing the heavy scent of night jasmine. She rights the toppled robin with a soft tsk under her breath. There’s only the warm white glow of the icicle lights colouring the room, flickering the concentration on his face as he sits up against the pillows, eating his chocolate bar. She climbs into bed with him, hooking her knee over his as she unpeels her Snickers.

“Did you ever see Superstar?” he asks, not quite so out of the blue. She knows he doesn’t mean the musical.

“Nope.” The nougat and caramel is all thick and yummy, solidified cold around the peanuts. “I still can’t find it online.”

“It’s pretty fucken wonderful. And creepy, so brilliantly creepy.” He licks his fingers, getting all the little smears of chocolate. “It really works.”

“Sometimes I think the best part of summer is chilled Snickers,” she tells him. “Yeah, I want to see it. I’ve read so much about it. And I love Todd Haynes.”

He smiles, lingering and affectionate, at her. His hand resting on her knee, he leans back against the pillows, watching the shadows dance across the walls as she eats her chocolate. When she’s done, she takes both the wrappers and lets them coil on the bedside table. Then leans in and kisses him long and deep, tasting caramel as she touches his face.

They have sticky sweaty sex as the fan moves the cold air around the room. Skin and breath, it’s this side of unpleasant and strangely better for it. Then abruptly he rolls out of bed, telling her to wait a second. Her body thrumming with desire, she touches herself while he rummages around in the kitchen. The soft fragrant heat of her cunt is slick on her fingers, tastes like sweet.

“Hey,” he scolds her gently when he returns, “no fair going on without me.”

“Just keeping everything warm and wet for you, baby,” she replies, quite cheeky.

He laughs, setting a glass of ice cubes on the bedside table. Interested, she watches as he scoops one out and puts it into his mouth, sucking on it as he gets back into bed. “I saw a movie like this once,” she tells him as he takes the cube out of his mouth. “Pierce Brosnan --”

He sucks on her nipple, so cold she squeals with shock and nearly throws him off. Laughing, he settles her, returning the ice to the glass. And then slides his wet mouth along the curve of her abdomen, dipping his cool fingers between her thighs, into the sticky heat of her cunt. “This what you remember?” he murmurs to her, looking up at her between the shapes of her breasts. 

She takes hold of his hair, a little incoherent now. “Yes. No. What? Come up here. I want you in me. Please,” she remembers to add, making him chuckle as he bends to kiss her mouth. 

He moves in her the way he does best, such a fluid beautiful ceaseless rhythm that has her trembling with love and so much pleasure. He fucks like he dances, liquid beautiful and unnervingly sensual. She knows how they look together, the light glimmering the length of his pale strong body, the ivory contours of his back, the curves of his perfect bottom, moving and moving, ivory and gold in the glow of Christmas lights. Her fingers flutter against his face and chest, she’s moaning soft as he strokes his thumb across her brow and watches her with tenderness, watches her come in long soft rushes of pleasure. His eyes are a dark glittering blue in these dim shades, warm and smiling like he holds so much goodness and sweetness in him. The honesty of her emotion overwhelms her, brave in this soft private moment. So she touches his face with both hands and brings him down to her, cradling his head and kissing his shoulder as he whimpers against her throat and comes into her. 

“Love you,” he murmurs a little while later when they’re lying on their sides, face to face. In the living room, that Chris Rea song is playing such pretty melody. Like he did to her, now she traces the swoop of his long brows, her smile feeling like it glows from inside her. “Love you,” she says back.

Behind her, there’s a soft thud through the music. Without blinking, she says, “The fool robin just fell over, didn’t it?”

He bites his lip, eyes sparkling. “The fool robin just fell over.”

Sighing, she decides to kiss him instead and turn so he can cuddle up against her. As the night gets colder and the fan keeps going, it’ll be easier to spoon like they do.

He reaches around her for his phone. She closes her eyes, thinking she probably should get out and turn the music and the fan off. But it’s too nice, lying there in the blessed cool of a Sydney summer night with the Christmas songs playing from another room.

“Ha,” he says. “The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold.”

“Me? You,” she almost says but realises just in time. “Ha, yes.” Eyes shut, she feels him put the phone back on the bedside table. “I knew I knew it,” she mumbles as he curves his arm along hers across her middle.

“Beautiful girl,” he whispers just as he’s falling asleep.

__________

 

The week of Christmas, his little daughter arrives with her mum. He goes to meet them at the airport, they’re staying with family friends somewhere in the eastern suburbs. He comes home to her, practically glowing.

A couple of afternoons later, they pick up the two girls and drive into the city for the Christmas sights. The crowds are pretty ferocious but the weather isn’t quite so steamy, and the little one has a sun hat firmly tied on. 

This year the Swarovski tree that towers right through the centre of Queen Victoria Building is lush green and spiky with crystal snowflakes, dripping gold. They take pix and go up all three levels to the very top where the star blazes white gold. She beams at the massive tree, so proud and happy that it’s pretty this year, and catches him smiling at her, some kind of memory in his eyes.

They make their way through the crowds, holding onto the little one’s hands as she chatters about the toys and people she sees. The teenager is understandably less impressed. They come out into the throngs of Pitt Street concourse where buskers and dancers perform in front of the kitschy Christmas trees. 

“Let’s go up to David Jones,” she suggests. A bus goes past, its interior a riot of decorations, tinsel streamers flying from its front. Entirely too excited, he points out the driver in Santa hat and beard to his little daughter who rightly identifies the guy as an imposter.

The David Jones window display this year is a sort of Willy Wonka candy factory, loud and colourful and retro. It’s exactly the slightly grotesque fascinating spectacle designed to appeal to children and mildly terrify the adults. Sunnies in place, he hoists his little daughter up into his arms so she can hold onto his neck and watch the clockwork figures clanking along to the music. They read out the accompanying explanation to her, surrounded by so many families and tourists. His teenager surveys it all with a slight frown, also totally understandable.

They get icy chocolate drinks from Max Brenner, naturally, and walk on to Martin Place where the banners flutter colours. He’s all exuberance, joking and laughing with his girls who react to him with the same adoring fascination. She takes pix of them on her phone, there are lots of selfies at various points of the brightly decorated city. 

Not at the Martin Place tree though because it is absolutely ghastly, tall and green wound with a electronic ribbon of scrolling messages. He stifles a laugh at her horrified reaction, guiding them past, his hand slipping down her back. But the decorations of the surrounding designer stores are gorgeous, one in particular framed in lush green with little gold baubles, and she knows the best is yet to come.

There are all sorts of activities down on Darling Harbour, children shrieking and held fast by parents at the outdoor concerts. Carols and very loud singalongs conducted by cheery people in colourful outfits, face painting and balloon animals, with a lot of stoked excitement about Santa’s arrival. The little one maintains it’s too early and clearly this one will be an imposter as well. They assure her she’s quite right. 

The two kids get their faces painted, one a tiger and one a peacock. They both look so awesome she feels a stab of envy and asks, “Can I get my face painted too? I wanna be a dragon.”

The nice lady tells her no, there will be no face painting for adults today. She’s so cross about this it takes another round of ice cream to distract her. This is his idea.

In a few hours, as the summer skies darken, the city lights up. Clutching their balloons and showbags from the children’s concerts, they head back up. The Pitt Street concourse transforms into an avenue of gold lights strung overheard, so magical they glow the green trees and all the kitschy ornamentation. Of course this means a lot more selfies in which they all look very glamorous, tiger and peacock and humans, no filter needed. 

Every historic sandstone building comes alive with colour, from the hot pink of Town Hall with its glittering gold Christmas tree to Martin Place with so much colour and brightness. They walk over to St Mary’s Cathedral which is another canvas of light, vivid jewel colours that change from blue to green with gold detail around the windows. Its facade blazes words of Love Respect Joy Goodwill that make three of them snort with derision. 

At the top end of Hyde Park, the Archibald fountain shimmers with light, casting droplets across them as the wind catches the spray and makes the girls squeal. They circle back up to the quay, having a terribly important discussion about the merits of Tangled versus Frozen. He aligns himself with his little daughter on Team Elsa. She and the teenager roll their eyes and make a persuasive case for Rapunzel and Eugene. The persuasion does not succeed, it may or may not turn into a feud. She can tell he thoroughly enjoys this argument, eyes sparkling in the city light, lips twitching with humour.

At Customs House, the Christmas tree is so pretty with its gold and green that they take several pix around it. He puts his arm around her and turns his mouth against her temple, his body solid and warm against hers, the girls clutching both their hands. She tries to contain her quiet freak out at the sheer domesticity of it all. 

On the quay, the Opera House remains its gleaming ivory self, biding its time to New Years, but the bridge looks somehow more rigged up in preparation. And she remembers, says that this year there’ll be rainbow fireworks lighting up the bridge. It chokes her up a little.

Because it’s been a fucking horrible year of fighting for and finally getting marriage equality, and she’s still bitter and wounded about the shit they had to go through to get that Yes. 

“That’s why Christmas seems so much more important this year,” she realises aloud. “Because everything has been so awful, and we deserve to look at something pretty and be happy now at the end of the year.”

As the teenager looks at her with some sort of realisation, he pulls her into a hug, saying fiercely, “And it’s gunna be a fucken magnificent Christmas if I have anything to do with it.”

Her arms around his waist, she smiles against the fabric of his tee. She believes him completely.

They have early dinner at a cafe on the quay, with the breeze coming off the waters of the inner harbour. Palm trees from the pavers, lit from below, and the white umbrellas like sails above their heads. The shopfronts and restaurants behind them are all decorated with stencilled snowflakes and wishes. Carols and the usual songs squawking faintly from speakers, quirky Aussie Santa merchandise in the classy overpriced souvenir stores. There’s a massive white cruise ship in the harbour, tourists wandering around with phones and iPads and cameras, dressed totally wrong for a Sydney summer night. 

But the view is still spectacular, the skies streaked with the last colours of sunset, the glittering arch of the bridge with traffic going in a steady stream through, and the perfect incandescent shape of the Opera House around the curve. She says ruefully to him as the girls have some private conference, “I take this for granted, don’t I? Not Christmas. This here, this city, this view.”

His mouth quirks as he pushes his sunnies to the top of his head, his other hand linking with hers. He looks so handsome, ruffled silver hair, the contours of his elegant face, and the softness of his blue grey eyes. “Bit hard not to, I reckon.” He glances quickly across at it all. “Then it takes just one moment to remind you how goddamned fucken special the whole place is.”

Gratified, she pats his hand. “What a good Melbournite you are.”

His little daughter interrupts at that point, wanting to know what the small figures on the curve of the bridge are. Before he shifts his attention, his smile is equal parts warning and delight, a gleaming fiendish promise in his eyes.

After dinner, they go to the Guy Lian cafe for dessert, and drop the girls at their respective homes, each with a tiny box of chocolates for their respective mum. When he gets back into the car in the weird yellow and green light of a streetlamp by a tree, he leans over and kisses her with the taste of salted caramel on his lips.

_____________

 

On the twenty-first of December, he makes the gravy for the Christmas roast, and sings Paul Kelly at the top of his lungs. He’s in his Hos tanktop and board shorts, the red stars bobbing and waving around his hair. She reminds herself that she loves him very much and that he puts up with her own habits of -- well, whatever she does that could be faintly annoying. But no, it’s actually super charming and wonderful, and she gets to sit on the sunwarmed kitchen counter and quiz him about Paul Kelly albums. 

“Here, taste,” he commands her, turning with the spoon held out. She hops off the counter, wearing his Faulkner tee and her polka dot undies with the lace trim. Closes her eyes and takes her time to savour the taste because she knows he’s watching her with a frown, expecting a detailed reaction. 

She opens her eyes and says, “We should watch Meet Me In St Louis.”

“What?” he snaps, regaining his humour in a moment, half laughing. “Focus, woman!”

“I am! It’s wonderful. All nice and rich and just the right consistency. It’s going to hold so well to the roast.” As he hugs her with one arm, she leans her head against his shoulder, breathing in the lovely comforting gravy fumes.

“I’m gunna add some more thingie,” he mumbles, reaching for the dried bay leaf. 

The song kicks into gear around them, such a familiar beat that she shimmies next to him, trying not to bump his stirring hand too much. He grins, still concentrating.

“I love that image,” she tells him.

“Which one?”

“Riding through the cane, in the pouring rain. It’s so Queensland, isn’t it? I love it.”

His smile deepening, he stirs on. “Totally. Mine --” he breaks off to sing along with the chorus and continues “-- the silvertop. That’s my favourite line. Why are we watching Meet Me In St Louis?”

“You’ll see,” she replies. “So is the menu totally decided now? Ooh, shall I make up a menu card like at Biota?”

He flashes her a quick blue smile. “Yeah, awesome!”

“I’ll put a silly Santa on it,” she promises and scurries to get her laptop. “Okay, tell me!”

When he pronounces the gravy done and puts it away in the freezer, she kisses him as reward. He cups her bottom with both hands, and laughs as he kisses her again. They start the movie, him sprawled on the couch with a beer dangling from one hand, and she with her bare legs across his lap as she works on the menu card in Photoshop. His free hand plays unconsciously with her toes.

He bursts out laughing at the first scene where the ketchup is tasted and critiqued in totally contradictory terms by the family. “See?” she crows, delighted. He nods, giggling around the mouth of the beer bottle.

When the menu card is finalised, fonts and picture and all, she tells him, “I want to do the table decorations! Can I? No, wait,” she interrupts as he opens his mouth. “Why am I asking you for permission? It’s my table, I’ll do the table decorations. We’re not gunna be plebs with nothing pretty on the table.”

“Okay, but it can’t detract from the food, from my fucken magnificent Christmas spread,” he replies, half serious.

“Of course not.”

“It will be perfectly complementary.”

“Of course it will.”

Naturally this means another visit to the homewares store. This close to the big day, the shopping centre is a haven of aircon, and a controlled chaos of shoppers and stressed kids. But the task of choosing the perfect lovely table decorations focuses their attention. At the shelves, he hugs her from behind as she muses colours aloud. It doesn’t take too long, and the huge Christmas discount makes the experience even better.

“No more snow globes,” he says sternly on the way out. She looks hastily away, blushing a little. He wasn’t supposed to have noticed.

“Anway,” she can’t resist arguing, “who’s to say what’s an appropriate number of snow globes? Why can’t I have as many as I want?”

“Five,” he says decisively as they step onto the escalators with their bags. “Five is too many.”

“Oh yes?” She grins at him, a little evil. “And how many Millennium Falcons do you have?”

This year the Star Wars film was in May, so Christmas feels a little different. A bit red around the ears, he pouts and says, “Next year seems so far away.”

“I know. And then it’ll be here before we know it.”

In Target to look at Christmas napkins, they walk past a child throwing a fit at its grandmother talking on the phone. “Candy canes, I want candy canes! Candy! Canes!” the child bellows right in the poor lady’s face. 

“Bloody hell,” she mutters. He’s giving the kid an equally unimpressed look. 

They load up on Christmas crackers, and have a slight argument about napkin ring holders before deciding to forego them this year.

___________

 

Christmas Eve they spend madly grocery shopping for the meal next day. She had stepped in a few weeks ago to make lists, and schedule what needs to be picked up. “Remember Messina is last,” she says, consulting her phone. “We don’t want the thing to melt before we get home.”

“Right, right.” He’s already looking harassed, silvered hair standing on end as he parks outside the butcher. “But I mean, it’s just Tramsheds we’re picking it from, not --”

“No, that’s right. Thank christ Tramsheds is doing them.”

He grins at her, undoing his seatbelt. “Good, then it’ll be ten minutes home.”

“And hopefully it’s not stinking hot by then.”

“Esky,” he reminds her gleefully as they get out, making her laugh. “The great Australian tradition of the esky.”

“Hold on,” she panics. “Do we even have the right bowl? Do I own a bowl that size?”

“We’ll get one now. Come the fuck on.”

Somehow they manage to get everything bought and transported home before their social engagement that night. It’s not actually hot enough that they need the esky to keep the Messina dessert from melting but he brings it anyway to be sure. The fridge is stocked to bursting proportions, something that frets her enough that she takes everything out and reorganises the shelves because he’s fucking hopeless like that. The kitchen will be a total disaster area tomorrow, she’s already bracing herself for that sight. He’s probably going to get sauce on the ceiling or something.

That evening, they attend a backyard barbecue thrown by friends in Drummoyne. “God, I love this house,” she says wistfully as they park on the long curving street down to the water. 

The front garden is a hedge maze that zig zags up the slope to the level of what really is a mansion. From the street, only the turret of the house is visible, red brown brick and black roof. It makes her sigh every time.

In the vivid shades of the early evening, the sea breeze stirs her red silk top, and the car door slams. She adjusts her grip on the bag of presents, looking over her shoulder to where he comes up behind her, balancing the covered tray of something else he’s marinated. “All good?”

“All good,” he replies, so sleek in all black, his hair catching light. She smiles at how lovely he looks, and they go up the angled path towards the sound of conversation and music. There’s already the hot iron smell on the air of a barbecue getting warmed up. And when they walk out of the path, there are already people gathered around the pool, drinks in hand.

His girls and their mums are there. It’s a whole mess of hugs and greetings and introductions. She assures the girls they’ll get their presents on the actual day, these are for the friends, and goes inside to empty the bag under the very alternative Christmas tree that is all brown branches with gold baubles and strings of red beads. 

“God, I’d love to have a tree like this one year,” she tells him when he brings her a drink.

His hand on her bottom, he gives the tree and then her a quizzical look. “Yeah? What’s stopping you?”

“Talent,” she admits, sighing into her Christmas punch. 

He snorts and kisses the tip of her nose. “Shut up, come have something to eat.”

It’s a lovely raucous evening of food and music around the glimmering pool and on the grass under the dark blue arch of a glorious Australian sky. Gold lights strung through the green trees around the garden, cicadas going mad in the shrubbery, the characteristic whiff of night jasmine on the air. The music keeps ricocheting between Christmas songs and good old fashioned Strayan rock, a dichotomy that endlessly amuses her. There are prawns and sausages and ham and cold cuts and potato salad and bread rolls, all the standards of white Aussie culture.

His little daughter runs around the garden with the other small children of the party, while his teenager sits with her, the two of them scrolling social media and talking about everything and nothing. Beside her, he sits back in his plastic chair, legs spread, plate balanced on one knee as he tells the party some loud profane story that involves a lot of gesticulating with his cigarette. At one point, she rescues the dangerously tipping plate and puts it on the nearby table. He doesn’t notice, laughing hysterically at some joke. Amused, she turns back to her conversation.

His marinated contribution to the barbecue is well appreciated. When dessert is being handed out, pavlova and Magnum ice creams, there are people dancing on the grass, beers in hand. She’s having an excellent enjoyable discussion about Michaela Coel when he comes up behind her and puts his arms around her waist, listening politely with his chin on her shoulder. She clasps her hands over his, absently loving the solid feel of his chest at her back, the mingled scent of nicotine and barbecue and his cologne around her. He endures the conversation for a few patient minutes and then, as the song changes, tugs her away with a charming apology to the others.

It’s the perfect melody for the perfect balmy Sydney summer night. That classic Church song of stars and longing, of a warm lovely voice over strumming guitar and echoey beats. His eyes soft and mouth tender, he twirls her out and back into his arms across the grass, responding to her wide bright smile. Because he knows how much she loves this song, loves it like any proper Aussie. 

She lets him draw her close, her head against his shoulder, his one hand at her waist, the other clasping hers to his chest. They dance as the song circles and circles on the blue air around them, she in her red top and blue jeans, he in his black tee and slim jeans. When she looks down between them, her red shoes gleam between his dark suede boots on the crushed grass. It makes her smile, lifting her face to look at the beloved elegant contours of his cheekbones and mouth. He regards her with his subtle happiness, and she kisses him lightly, feeling the perfect shape of the moment.

Before it gets too late, they say their goodbyes. His little one is coming to spend the night with them, and they need to collect presents from friends and make it an early night.

She’s a little anxious about separating mother from child for Christmas Eve but asks and is assured there are other plans made and ready to be enjoyed. The teenager knows she’ll see them the next day.

The drive home is taken up by tales of how Hanukkah was celebrated this year and how much gelt was accumulated, and more arguing about Elsa versus Rapunzel. Back at the apartment, he shows his kid all the decorations — she’s slightly bewildered but impressed — and then gets her ready for bed. This goes all the way up to pajamas and brushing of teeth but no, she is absolutely not ready to go to sleep. To stave off the impending tantrum, he agrees to the watching of one movie with them. 

His kid falls asleep on his lap ten minutes into Die Hard.

“Told you,” he says smugly.

“You got lucky,” she tells him. “Is the movie going to wake her?”

He snorts. “Not bloody likely. Hey,” he remembers suddenly, “where’s the advent calendar? Have we done today?”

“Ooh, no! I wonder which one it is.”

On the couch in the pretty glow of the Christmas lights, they open up the second last window and, laughing softly, struggle to get out the slightly melted praline without smooshing it all over their fingers. It smooshes anyway, so he catches her hand, his eyes glinting, and licks it off her fingers in a fairly filthy manner. She’s so effectively mesmerised by this that it takes her a while to realise. 

“Hey,” she exclaims with hushed indignation, “leave me some, don’t have it --”

He kisses her long and slow, all warm wet mouth and soft lewd tongue. Tasting of smooth dark chocolate with the sweetness of caramelised pecans. She goes hot in her clothes, her fingers curling in the cotton of his tee, pressing against his chest as she licks into his mouth and bites him with care. The solid weight of his kid is between them, that’s really as far as they can go.

They watch the rest of Die Hard, nestled together on the couch as the Christmas tree flickers its pretty colours to one side, and the curtains billow a little on the southerly bringing the cool change. There’s the sound of people partying on a balcony of the building next door, laughter and music. He turns his head and presses his lips against her temple, some thought that makes him squeeze his arm around her shoulders. She’s a little too caught up in Alan Rickman faking a German-American accent to wonder or ask.

When the movie finishes, he carries his sleeping daughter to the made up spare bedroom. She follows him after a few minutes and pops her head around the door. “Hey,” she says softly, holding out the small snowy pine tree glowing with twinkle stars. “Put this next to her bed. Just in case she needs a night light.”

He catches up to her in the living room as she surveys the dining table already set for the next day. “Come here,” he mutters, soft and rough, arms slipping around her, his mouth seeking hers.

“No, oh my god,” she gasps, fending him off. “Not with her here, what are you, nuts?”

“She’s not going to --” He laughs suddenly, his eyes sparkling mischief. “Hold on, is this you being a prude? Really and truly?”

She pushes out of his arms, sniffing. “Everyone has their boundaries, excuse you. Now, do you want to watch another movie or go to bed? Santa’ll be here soon.”

He’s about to say something obscene, she can see it bubbling up.

“Don’t you fucken dare,” she warns, sending him into a fit of giggles. “Oh my god. So rude. Corrupting even Santa.”

“Please,” he says cheekily, following her back to the couch. “I’ve seen the porn you watch. What was that one the other day, the one with the three Santas and --”

She picks up a cushion and whacks him repeatedly with it, hissing, “Child in the house, child in the house -- child!”

Laughing, he grapples with her until she’s held down on the couch, pinned by one leg. He’s so pretty and fun she gives up and kisses him, feeling all soft and lush silky in his arms. They make out for a while, with the distant sounds of the party next door. His hand slides under her top, she pushes up his tee enough to get at his pink nipples. Lazy and slow, he bends to kiss the softness of her abdomen, nuzzles the blue denim where her thighs meet. “Take this off,” she murmurs, and helps him pull the tee over his head.

His hair all ruffled silver, he leans his bare arms on either side of her, and smiles as she brings his face to hers so she can kiss his sweet mouth. “We should watch The Apartment,” he mumbles, nudging the straps of her top off her shoulders.

“What, now?” She’s a little confused.

“It’s a Christmas movie,” he reminds her, and licks a wet stripe across the tops of her breasts pushed up by the blue bra. 

She screws up her face, reaching for the hooks at her back. “Is it? Isn’t it more New Years?”

“We’ll watch it again then,” he assures her.

One thing they have always agreed on is a love for Billy Wilder and this movie in particular. By the time the doctor and Jack Lemmon are walking Shirley MacLaine back and forth across the room, he’s balls deep in her, moaning softly and biting his lower lip as his hips fuck sweet and hot against hers, and his cock moves and moves within her cunt.

On her back, she wraps her hands around his wrists, trying to contain her soft cries of pleasure, and whispers fiercely, “Swear to god, if your child wakes up and walks out here to find us like this, I will **_leave_** your arse.”

Giggling totally disrupts his rhythm. “She won’t,” he manages, his face reddening. “Shut the fuck up and let me fuck you properly.”

She can’t argue with this.

And luckily, his daughter sleeps on, none the wiser.

_____________

 

Christmas morning begins very early with the sound of the bedroom door opening and a little voice. He takes a moment to react and then lurches out of bed, the door shutting soft behind them. She mumbles into the pillow and dozes back off. He’s going to start cooking immediately, there’s so much to prepare, and she has no intention of getting in the way.

A couple of hours of sleeping in the sun later, he’s kissing her cheek, murmuring, “Babe. Babe, wake up, it’s Christmas.”

“Mmm.” Eyes still shut, she touches his throat. “Merry Christmas.”

He says it back to her, his voice rich and tender. There’s the muffled sound of the television, the rich aroma of something in the oven, several somethings on the stove, but all she wants is to snuggle with him. As she tries to put her arms around his neck, he catches her shoulders. “Uh uh. Come on, out of bed.”

His warmth somehow moves away. She cracks her eyes open to see him standing by the bed -- dressed already of course -- hands on his hips, looking down at her like he’s trying to be stern and failing miserably. He’s in his old grey trousers with the fine chequered pattern, and a new dark grey singlet.

“Oh my god,” she says, and they both burst into giggles. This one features two thumbs pointing inwards and proclaims This Guy Loves Christmas. “Oh my god, I love it,” she chokes out, body convulsing with mirth.

Now he points at her, one hand still on his hip. “Out of fucken bed. Right fucken now. My sauce is on the stove, I need you to come help me.”

She turns onto her back with a long lazy stretch, letting the sheet drape down because her tits are out of her askew tanktop, pale and sluttish in the sunshine. “Are you sure?” she murmurs, and puts her hand to the front of his trousers, her gaze flicking up. “Are you sure you don’t want to start my Christmas Day just right?”

“Fuck,” he mutters on an indrawn breath, catching her wrist. Below her palm, his cock is stirring. “Okay, but we have to be quick,” he says on a rush, and pulls her up, flips her around in the rumpled bed. On her hands and knees, she laughs, gleeful.

He’s deep in her, one hand squeezing the soft weight of her breast, swearing and moaning, fucking her when the bedroom door is tried and a little voice sounds on the other side. In an instant, they’ve both flattened into the sheets, eyes wide on the locked door. “Shit, shit!” he says eloquently, then calls out to his daughter to go back to the cartoons and he’ll be there in a second.

“Oh my fucken god, seriously,” he mutters as she shakes with muffled hysterical laughter. He grabs both her arms to pull them behind her back, making her gasp with delight, and fucks her so fast and hard she comes before she knows it. “There,” he says when they’re done, pulling out and smacking her playfully on the arse. “Merry fucken Christmas.”

“You filthy animal,” she responds automatically. It takes them both a moment to realise, and then he’s hugging her as they laugh and laugh. 

“Now who’s fucken corrupting the faves?” he says, his eyes sparkling lovely blue grey. 

“Shut up, you love it.”

He giggles, then looks suddenly stricken. “Fuck! My fucken sauce is burning!”

“Oh, is that what they’re calling it these days?” she murmurs as he hurtles out the bedroom, pulling his trousers up over his barse arse. 

When she emerges, it turns out the sauce is ruined but he’s rallied well. “Sokay, it was too sour, anyway. I’m making it again, it won’t take long. Babe, can you --” He stops, having actually seen her. “Well …” he says in tones of deep appreciation.

Pleased, she holds her arms out and twirls in the centre of the kitchen so he can get the full effect of her Christmas outfit. “Right?”

It’s a dress she saw months ago and promptly put on afterpay since it was so freaking expensive and totally worth it. Strapless pink patterned in red and white flowers, with a red ribbon under her breasts, and a full swinging skirt with frothy pink petticoats. Thirties style kitten heels covered in red satin, gold sparkly antlers of course, and she’s wearing the peony and blush suede perfume they both love so much.

“Do I look amazing?” she prompts, beaming at him.

So much humour in the contours of his face, he leans over and kisses her cheek, a dripping spoon in one hand. “You look amazing and very Christmassy. Now check the roast. They’ll be here soon and I need to get my kid ready.”

“Ooh, all organised and errything,” she teases, but obeys. He really has put together an amazing feast, it’s been worth all the effort. And the kitchen is a complete war zone, pots and pans everywhere, the sink full of dirty utensils. With a sigh, she goes to slip off her dress so she can clean up. “Really should have checked first,” she mutters to herself, “really should have known better.”

By the time he ushers his little daughter out, all dressed up and chattering about her presents to come, the kitchen is restored to a presentable condition, the covered dishes warming on the stove and in the oven. He blinks, a little taken aback, and gives her a sheepish smile. Back in her slightly crumpled dress, she bends down to give his kid a glass of the pear and acacia juice, and exchange compliments on their pretty outfits.

“I’ll go get ready,” he says brightly and vanishes into the bedroom. 

Christmas music on, she and the kid go around the living area, making the final tweaks. Turning on all the twinkle lights, closing the windows because it’s going to be a scorcher of a Christmas Day. That means the candle on the table still gets lit but they bring the pedestal fan in and angle it just right so the flame doesn’t go out. There’s plenty of ice, two pitchers of Pimms Christmas punch are chilling. She supervises as his daughter lights the Jo Loves scented candle on the sideboard, and agrees that it’s very pretty.

By the time the intercom buzzes, the apartment smells like heaven. A yummy festive heaven all beautiful and ready to be enjoyed. It’s a small gathering, just them, the two girls and their mums, and a couple of friends. Enough to fit into her apartment, enough to fill it with laughter and loud conversations. Presents are added under the tree, its bird theme noted with hilarity. They’re very appreciative of all the trouble taken, all the lush red berry and green decorations, the snow globes and gold reindeer and lights.

When he comes out, they’re gathered around the table, admiring the setting while she blushes happily. Round red sparkly placemats on a white damask tablecloth, red napkins with patterns of white snowflakes, white plates with gold trim, each laid with a red Christmas cracker and printed menu card. And in the centre of the table a snowy green mistletoe garland wound around the base of a fat white candle in crystal.

“Isn’t it fucken fabulous?” he bellows happily, putting his arm around her, and is promptly yelled at en masse for swearing on Christmas Day. Of course this has no effect whatsoever. They both switch into entertaining mode, handing out drinks and nibblies, talking all the while. He’s showered and changed into a suspiciously familiar pair of red satin trousers and a perfect white buttoned shirt with red detail on the buttons and around the inside of the open collar. The red stars are back in place atop his silver hair.

“My Christmas prince,” she murmurs to him at one point as they cross paths in the kitchen. He responds with a thoroughly cheeky grin and steals a kiss even though his mittened hands are laden with dishes for the table.

His Christmas feast is presented with all the appropriate flair and accompanying stories. As she looks around the table in the glow of candle and sunshine, there’s the same fond indulgent expression she sees so often when people look at him. The Christmas roast is shoulder of beef with a Thai massaman marinade he’s tweaked to kosher standards, and of course he rolls up his sleeves to carve the thing with an expression of fierce concentration. It’s all terribly masculine and attractive, his bare forearms tensing with muscle, the silver signet ring glinting, red stars wobbling, and his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. The gravy is handed around, laughed about and complimented because of course it’s an Aussie point of pride.

Sides of colourful mini potatoes with lemon sauce, stacks of golden pink potato salmon patties, and wonderfully spicy carrots roasted with harissa. There’s fresh coriander salad, and he makes another pitcher of Pimms Christmas punch sans fruit because they’ve finished it all. The pear and acacia juice from Biota is very much enjoyed, which means they have to retell that whole dining experience.

Everyone is supplied with their own festive headband, selfies are taken, the food grammed. The crackers are pulled, causing squeals and near disasters with upset drinks. Coloured paper crowns either replace or are added to the headbands. Bad jokes recited from the little slips of paper, and groaned at. He thinks they’re all perfectly wonderful jokes, what’s everyone bitching about?

There’s an intense discussion about whether presents should be opened before or after dessert. In the end, they agree that Santa’s waited long enough. So as she and the teenager surreptitiously clear the table, the rest of the party gathers around the tree. His little daughter is appointed Santa’s official representative, assisted in the reading of gift tags by her father. Soon the living room floor is scattered with all the debris of the holiday season, ribbons and discarded paper, as presents are unwrapped, enthused over, hugs exchanged and disappointment concealed with various degrees of success. 

In the kitchen, she tries to wash up without splattering her dress. “I need an apron, that’s what I need. Good grief.” 

But then she’s summoned by the roar of Santa’s representative and the equally loud assistant, ordered to sit down, and handed her presents. Shoes kicked off, she undoes the wrapping paper on books, a couple of gift cards, and another snow globe that causes much excitement on her part and laughter from everyone else. It’s not from him, she can tell from his eagerness when that particular one comes over.

His present is a broad flat shape. She sends him a bewildered look, completely at a loss as to what it could be. He’s already picking his way over people and mess to hunker down by her side as she rips the paper off. Her breath catches.

“Do you like it?” He nudges her, a little anxious.

It’s two sets of charcoal pencils, and a sketchpad. “Look,” he says, “I got you one of each, that’s Faber-Castell, that’s Derwent. Just in case you -- jesus, woman, say something.”

She turns and puts her arms around his neck, buries her face against his shoulder.

“Oh, right,” he says with relief, patting her back. Because she’s totally overwhelmed with emotion, and it doesn’t help that they’re surrounded by people. As the next present gets handed out and the talk carries on against the music, he inclines his head and peers into her face. “You right, my darling?” he asks, very kind and very Aussie.

There’s a tiny sparkle on his cheekbone, catching gold. She’s not going to cry, she’s not going to cry. Instead, she leans her forehead against his, and says softly, “Thank you so much, it’s a wonderful present.”

“Yeah,” he says gruffly, “so no more excuses, no more wistful sighing and saying you have no talent.”

She gurgles a laugh in the warm private space between them. “I still may not have talent.”

“Doesn’t fucken matter,” he replies with a tender ferocity. “Go for it, you idiot.”

She laughs, very touched.

A little while later, as she’s handing out small glasses of Baileys on ice and butterscotch schnapps to the adults, the girls are opening their many many presents from their father. There’s a lot of relief expressed about no possible Christmas sweaters which make him laugh like a goddamned hyena. As it is, both girls are very pleased with their Peter Alexander sleepwear in shades of pink and blue, all crazy Christmas patterns and Disney characters.

“Told you,” she says, sitting next to him. “Mad enough for you, cute enough for me. Result.”

“Don’t be smug,” he tells her. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“Fuck off,” she replies calmly, swaying into him as he laughs and puts his arm around her shoulders. 

Their headbands are discarded on the messy kitchen counter. By now, his white shirt is untucked and half unbuttoned, smelling of food and spilt Pimms punch. He is a thoroughly disreputable beautiful man, hair rumpled, drinking his beer and holding her close to his side. Her strapless bra is digging under her arms, a couple of sauce smears on her dress, pink petticoats crushed between them, spilling onto the red satin of his thigh. She leans her cheek on his shoulder, deeply happy as she watches yet another fight develop about Elsa versus Rapunzel.

“Dessert,” he yells suddenly. “Who wants amazing fucken Christmas trifle? Hands up who wants -- you snooze, you lose!”

The Messina concoction in its big crystal bowl with its layers and layers of sorbet and jam rolls and custard proves an effective distraction. As she ladles out portions, and people take to the couch or sit on the living room floor amid all the wrapping paper and ribbons, he discovers there’s another present for him under the tree. She watches him from the dining table, her smile hidden, awaiting the explosion.

“Oh! My fucking god!” 

And he comes charging at her, clutching the framed print of Doctor Doom fanart. “This is fucken amazing, look at him, look at the fucken -- this is -- oh fuck! Thank you!” he bellows and kisses her so soundly she nearly drops the ladle into the depths of the trifle bowl. 

Very pleased, she shoves him off as the girls clamour to see the artwork. He spends the next couple of hours beaming fatuously at her across the room, which would be embarrassing if it wasn’t so fucking funny. His fanboying never ceases to be hilarious.

A little later the mistletoe wreath candle is blown out. There is only the glow of twinkle lights and afternoon sunlight around the curtains as the vegetarian Christmas pudding is drenched with a little too much brandy and set ablaze. 

It nearly scorches his shirt and scares the hell out of everyone.

It’s about four in the afternoon when their guests start the process of goodbyes and making Uber bookings. As usual, he made too much food so everyone gets sent home with takeaway containers. Hugs and kisses and plans made for New Years.

When she closes the apartment door on blessed silence, he leans his forehead against her shoulder. “I am. Fucken. Exhausted,” he declares.

“Same,” she says, touching his hair. “Why don’t you go to bed? I’ll load up the dishwasher.”

“Leave it,” he whines, pulling at her hand. “Come nap with me.”

“In a bit,” she assures him with a kiss, and gently pushes him on. If she doesn’t clean up now, it will never happen.

About an hour or so later, she trudges into the bedroom, returning the pedestal fan to its usual spot, feeling weirdly drained and happy at the same time. In the pretty colours of the late arvo, blue skies and green trees at the window, he’s collapsed on his stomach in bed, his limbs heavy among the sheets. Her heart lush with fondness, she puts a hand on the black clad curve of his bottom, and kisses his smooth freckled shoulder. He did so well, he did everything he said he would, and it was a wonderful day, exactly what they had both discussed and hoped for.

She showers, and comes out of the bathroom. His clothes are scattered across the floor. She collects them and her dress, puts them in the laundry basket. Quite naked, she climbs into bed and flops half onto him, not caring. He grunts but doesn’t actually wake up. She’s asleep in a matter of seconds.

______________

 

Her sleep is long and deep. She dreams, whirling as a wisp of consciousness on a rising breeze, flying, rushing, travelling across the great sunburnt continent. From the blue fringe and sandstone cliffs to the hills and paddocks, over the silver glint of dams far below, over the blue tinged peaks and further further where the green parches to yellow and then deepens to red, to where the ochre earth cracks and the camels run wild, stampeding across the desert. Tossed on the continental gale, she’s exhilarated and free, whirling all the way to where red desert pales to plains of salt, to the city on the glittering blue waters lapping the opposite edge of this huge inhabited island.

It’s night when she opens her eyes, all shades of deep blue in the room as the fan rattles and swivels. Violet skies murky with cloud over the dark trees, and the distant glitter of the city when she opens the window to let the southerly in. She switches the twinkle lights off with a sort of sweet relief, and moves the slightly battered robin to the safety of the dresser. 

In her bed, he turns with a mumble, flinging out his arm to grope at the empty sheets. 

“I’m here,” she says without thinking, and returns to him. With a soft happy sound, he curves his arm around her waist, his leg hooked over hers, nose against her throat, and drifts back to sleep in the cool blue darkness. 

She lies there, thinking and idly threading her fingers through his hair. It feels close to midnight, Christmas is done for another year. The apartment is hushed, pleasantly empty and hers once more. She feels her awareness expand, sends her consciousness into all the spaces and shadows of her home. It’s a thing she does to feel safe in the dark, even with him snoring softly under her ear.

She wakes again when he rolls out of bed, snuffling to himself as he rubs his face with both hands and disappears into the bathroom. When he slips back into bed, minus boxer briefs, she’s checking social media on her phone, the white blue glow lighting her face. He cuddles up to her, arm around her soft waist, his cheek against hers.

“Hey,” she says with quiet anticipation, and scrolls back up. “Look at this.”

“Awww!” he bursts out. “Little dogsies in little socksies! Oh my god, look how fucken small they are!” He burrows closer, his hair tickling her nose as he peers at the screen, his hand angling her phone towards him. “Oh god, that,” he sighs, “that’s just good for the fucken soul. Look at that, that’s great.”

“Quality content,” she supplies, kissing his hair.

“Quality fucken content,” he repeats with deep satisfaction.

Together, they go through the pix of the day, talking in hushed tones and giggling about remembered moments. While he lies on his back, his own phone in hand as he goes through his friends’ Instagrams, liking pix and reading out comments to her, she realises with some surprise, “You know? I could eat?”

“Yeah,” he replies, his tone abstracted. “Me too. What time is it?”

She’s getting out of bed, still naked. “After eleven. I wonder if there were fireworks over Darling Harbour.”

Usually the nine o’clock show is loud enough to hear from her bedroom window. 

“Eh,” he says, unfussed. And she agrees as she goes to the kitchen. The Christmas fireworks never count, it’s all about the New Year spectacular bursting in great blooms of colour high over the dark waters and from the points of the Opera House, big golden spears of light that comes down from the skies and fill the air with smoke. And best of all, the golden waterfall that pours off the base of the bridge, the final and loveliest part of the show. 

The New Year fireworks make her so damned proud of her city. And this year she must remember to not make any disparaging comments about the fireworks over the Yarra in Melbourne. He got really narky last year, it took some serious sexual finagling to get back in his good graces.

No, not really. They just had fun pretending it did.

“Oh, yeah, final one!” he exclaims when she drops the advent calendar beside him. She’s decided to make a bit of a midnight feast of it. The last praline, bottles of chilled water --

“And fruitcake, look, I remembered the fruitcake.”

“Excellent,” he says with relish, pushing up against the pillows. The summer moon streams in through the fluttering curtains, and gleams the pale grain of his skin as he pokes his fingernail at the last little window. 

“You have glitter,” she murmurs, stroking where his chest sparkles bits of red. He’s so pretty in the moonlight, this rumpled cuddly silver elf of hers with his thin pouty mouth and perfectly shaped blue eyes.

“Mm?” He’s not listening. “Ah! Okay, careful,” he tells himself. “Careful.”

The last praline is dark chocolate with hidden sprinkles of sea salt. As she pulls her crossed ankles over each other and leans forward, bare breasted and soft bellied, he grins and lets her bite half the praline off. 

“Mm, so good,” he mumbles, chomping on the other half. Then he looks up, disconcerted. “Why’s it so quiet? Where’s the fucken music?”

“Go put some on,” she says mildly, occupied with cutting slices of the fruitcake. “And see if we got any sauce for this thing.”

“Ooh, good idea.”

From the living room, he yells, “Shall I retire the Christmas playlist?”

“Please do,” she calls back, very much ready for other music. When the song begins, her phone lights with the app connection. Eating a sultana, she grins. “Can I change it?” she yells to him.

“Yeah, all right!” He’s distracted, she can tell. 

The Church, definitely. Because last night slow dancing on the grass had reminded her of her favourite albums, all those gorgeous space melodies and warm lovely voice.

When he ambles back, she says, “I had this really amazing dream.”

“What, just now? Look what I found,” he says excitedly, setting the trifle bowl carefully on the snarled sheets of her bed.

“Oh yeah, I forgot I put that in the fridge. Oh my gosh, score.” There’s just a very little left, smooshed up jam rolls totally soaked now with sherry and melted sorbet.

“I know, right? And look!”

“Brandy custard! Yes! Oh yum, yum, yum.” 

Thoroughly excited, they arrange their midnight feast between them. The crystal facets of the trifle bowl catch light and throw tiny rainbows onto the white sheets. As he uncaps the brandy custard, the scent of cream and alcohol flashes her right back to London, and he glances at her with the same glint of erotic memory. 

Their smiles secret and intimate, she watches as he pours a pool of the custard over the fragments of jam roll. It gets under their nails when they dig their fingers in, giggling and feeding each other. The fruitcake is very dark and very alcoholic, really doesn’t need the custard after all. She dollops some onto a slice just because the contrast of cream and dark looks so good, especially next to the soaked red and pink of the trifle.

“What was your dream?” he asks as he picks up his phone with the less messy hand, and takes a pic of their dessert spread.

“Oh!” She tells him about it, sucking trifle off her fingers, and continues, “You know what I reckon it was?”

“What,” he says, his face all soft and serene as he watches her in the glow of moon and phone. 

“Church!” She jerks her head towards the source of the music. “You know that line in the -- hold on, I’ll play it.”

As she scrolls through the list of songs, he eats some of the fruitcake soaked with custard, moaning his appreciation.

“Here, okay, coming up now,” she says, listening as the song murmurs through the blue air. “There, that line.”

His face clears with understanding. “Out and past --”

“The harbour,” she interrupts, excited. “As the sharks dream in the waves.”

“So fucken Sydney,” he says wryly, casting her a gleaming mischievous look from under his brows.

“I know,” she sighs, too happy to take the bait.

They eat in a sticky intimate darkness, mostly unaware of their nakedness as the fan whirs below the dreamy music. Except she’s not. 

The muscles of his shoulders move under his smooth pale skin as he reaches for more cake, distracting her with beauty. He’s been keeping in such good shape this year -- probably undoing a lot of that hard work with all this indulgence but still -- and he’s so trim but she likes the slight softness of his abdomen and the flat undefined shape of his chest. It makes him so more touchable. And now there’s more glitter, shining silent on the inside of his thigh.

“Looking at my cock again …”

Just for that, she doesn’t look away, saying without heat, “I like your cock, fuck off.” Laughter bubbles inside her. “At least I don’t grope it every second like you grope these,” she adds, putting both her hands on her breasts.

“What -- who’s groping!” he exclaims, his voice going up an octave. “I’m just sitting here quietly, fucken having dessert! I haven’t groped you fucken once -- do you want me to?” he asks, dropping his tone, his eyes very wide and blue.

“Hmm.” She puts a thoughtful finger to her lips and swings her legs off the bed. “Or you could just wait here while I get your secret Christmas present ready.”

“My what,” he bellows, bolting up in the sheets. 

“You would like your secret Christmas present now, right?” she asks, widening her eyes right back at him.

He gurgles that adorable laugh, shoulders hunching with excitement, his mouth wet and curving. “Yes, please. Yes, now. Please, please.”

She makes him close his eyes as she gets the stuff and goes into the bathroom. While she’s in there, he yells, “Should I change the music? Does this require special music?”

“I’m not fucken stripping for you, fool,” she yells back.

“Aww!” His disappointment comes through clear, making her laugh to herself and decide that can be his birthday present.

“Okay, I’m coming out now. Close eyes, please!”

He’s actually cleared their feast away while she’s been getting ready, an act so endearing she has to bite her lip. Also, because he’s turned on the bedside lamp and is sitting on the side of the bed, straight back, feet neatly together on the floor, hands on his knees, and eyes closed, quite naked and grinning ear to ear.

Her voice shaking with mirth, she comes to stand before him. “Okay. Now.”

He opens his eyes, and she says, “Merry Christmas, darling. Would you like to unwrap your present?”

“Oh. Oh,” he says with ringing sincerity, his eyes very blue and very hot. “Oh fuck me, that’s -- jesus fucken christ. Yessss. Come here,” he says, his voice all rough with arousal.

The red satin bra ties in a big vivid bow over her breasts, pushing them up and revealing enough creamy curves of flesh that his throat works as she steps closer on very high very slim red heels. “Jesus fucken christ,” he whispers, looking at where he puts his hands on the red satin of the matching knickers. She can tell he hasn’t noticed the other detail, she’s not going to point it out yet. Because this reaction is terribly flattering even though he’s already seen every inch of her, even though they’ve been doing this for well over a year now.

“Oh god,” he says softly and urges her forward so she puts one knee on the edge of the bed, half straddling him. Her breasts bound by the red satin are right in his face, hot unsteady breath on her skin. He skims his thumbs up her sides, making her shiver with sensation. “Fuck,” he mutters, “can I?” He glances up at her face, sees her amusement and grins back. “Do I just --”

“Open your present,” she tells him softly, the love warm in her voice. 

But then his mouth curls, naughty. And with one finger, he nudges the bow just that little upwards. Her nipples pop out, bare and erect, all the more shocking for the contrast against red satin. As the laughter ripples through her, he chuckles and grasps her waist firmer, tugs her so she sits on his lap, properly straddling his thighs. 

“Oh look,” he says with appalling innocence, “I wonder what these are. Maybe I should put them in my mouth?”

She laughs shakily, aware now of his cock hardening against her, that she’s getting wet now. “You’ll never know until you try …”

He slides his big hands slowly up the contour of her bare back, his palms dragging on smooth skin, making her moan a little. She loves when he touches her like this, like he experiences every inch of her flesh, watching her react to his touch. 

“Babe,” he says, his voice raw and luscious, pure sex. She arches as he strokes up, her eyes closing with this sensation like she turns into every glamour siren, pure female sexual power, owning all her curves and contours. 

All his attention is on her, a pleased breath escaping him, and then his mouth is closing on her bared nipple, sucking hot. Gasping, she looks down to see his silver head against red satin, the shape of his soft lips around her nipple. She puts her fingers in his hair, whimpering a little as he uses his teeth on her, as he cups her breasts with both hands, satin and him, and squeezes like he fucking owns her.

Which in this dizzied shameless moment she’s pretty sure he does.

“Oh,” she gasps when he licks the exposed curves between the bow and the concealed underwire. It’s like he’s eating of her, so greedy, taking great soft bites of her flesh, his face reddening a little. He tugs at his cock between them, pulls her hand to it. Wanting, she strokes him and rocks a little on his lap as he tilts her back and sucks on her other nipple, sucks til she feels it pulsing her cunt. “Oh god,” she moans, her hands full of his blood hard big cock, wanting to wrap her legs around him and impale herself on him.

But no, he wants what he wants. And right now, it’s to lift his head and smile at her with his raw glistening mouth and knowing blue eyes. The way he moves from innocent to depraved is a mindfuck in itself, how the same eyes and same mouth can look so different and make her breathless with lust.

“Opening now,” he murmurs, blue silver perversion. And this is not even as kinky as they’ve done, this is practically vanilla. But she feels like the top of her head is about to fly off, all her flesh so tight and hot in her skin. 

He pulls the bow undone, and the way her tits spill out of the red satin make them both groan, makes him kiss her hard and invasive, his tongue so bold. She’s whimpering and writhing on his lap, kissing him back as he gropes her breasts, as he thrusts against her covered cunt. 

“Jesus fuck!” He grabs her arse, obviously about to lift her onto his cock, and finally notices that little detail. 

“What?” he stammers, craning to look around her, so hilariously astonished that she laughs through her desire.

“Stand up,” he commands, eyes sparkling, and makes her turn to one side. She poses for him on the thin heels, bare tits pushed out, hand on her hip, laughing and twitching her bottom so the dangling red bow trembles.

“Oh. Fuck. Me,” he says with feeling. And then he’s pulling her to him so he buries his face against her cunt, smelling deep between her thighs. “Jesus fuck, I love that,” he tells her and licks the satin with the flat of his tongue. She moans, her hips bucking with the sense memory of his tongue in her cunt.

“Yeah,” he says roughly, and pulls the knickers down enough to bare her wetness for him. Then his tongue really is in her cunt and she’s sobbing with pleasure, looking down at her own fingers clutching at his hair. Her legs tremble but he’s holding her up, one hand gripping the back of her thigh and the other sliding further up to grasp the full bare curve of her breast, squeezing and squeezing as he licks and licks from clit into cunt and back again. 

She’s whimpering like a kitten again, hearing herself and not caring, shaking and pleading with him, pleading for more and more and stop and oh god right there right there. 

He pulls off just as she’s about to come, an unforgivable offence. 

Before she can say anything, he’s turned her around and is placing slow deliberate utterly maddening kisses down the inward curve of her back. He’s kissing her skin like he’s got all the time in the world, like he’s relearning the taste of her, counting kisses down her spine. She arches with pure frustration and pleasure, nipples tight as the fan blows cool air across her. 

And then he’s tugging the knickers down her legs, telling her to step out of them as he gets to his feet. 

She guesses about two seconds before it happens.

As she sinks weak to the bed, he contemplates the red satin knickers for a long moment. She watches him, breathless and throbbing, her hand creeping to between her thighs. And he grunts amused deep in his throat, and steps into the knickers, tugging the red satin up and up his tanned legs and pale thighs.

Her breath catches on arousal. The satin barely contains his lovely arse. He skims a hand over the mass of his balls and rather hard cock bulging out of the knickers. Somehow that makes everything hotter. The skin over his hipbones is pale, so delicate ivory against the vivid red. He’s beautiful.

He glances at her, a little fraught, uncertain now. 

She knows exactly what to do. Her smile warm and appreciative, she murmurs, “Turn around. Let me see how pretty you are.”

And just like that, he relaxes into having fun again. Like a shameless coquette, he slants flirty lashes at her, juts his hip out, and turns like she did, tilting his perfect bottom draped with the red satin bow, its forked ends flicking the back of his thighs. It makes her mouth go dry.

Her turn to say, “Come here,” reaching for him. 

Her teeth leave tiny red marks along the contour of his hipbone, making him cry out and fist his hands in her hair. The head of his cock bobs against her throat, the underside of her chin, ignored as he pleads. She turns him around and bites into the curve of his arse, deep enough that he snarls, “Fuck!” and pulls on her hair. But he loves it, she can tell from the hoarseness of his voice, from the way his cock hardens even more, glistening at the tip.

So she takes hold of his hips, turns him, and swallows his cock. 

He yells so loud the neighbours probably know exactly what she’s doing to him. Wet satin tight over his balls, she rubs him between his thighs and sucks his cock, spit and skin and veins, breathing in the scent of silvered hair down here. Deeper and deeper until her throat opens up and he sinks into her with an anguished moan. He’s trying so very hard not to thrust into her mouth, she’s really not sure why. 

So she pulls off and tells him, “You can fuck my face, I don’t mind.”

“Jesus god,” he whispers, his own face red, hair sticking to his temples. She grins at him, and kisses the wet head of his cock before taking him back in. There are times he forgets that she loves the taste of him, the solid hot girth of him in her mouth. Other times he’ll happily fuck her face, gripping the iron railing of her bed as she digs her fingers into the flesh of his arse and takes him deep. Usually this is after she’s been particularly cruel to him during foreplay.

Now he slides his big hands around the base of her head, murmuring something wordless and tender. His fingers link in her hair, and he gasps down at her as he pumps his cock into her mouth. It’s filthy and undignified and just that little bit degrading, and she loves it. Reaches her own hand down between her thighs to rub at her clit, dripping wet with the memory of that time he had arranged her on her side and eaten her out while she was doing this, his hand on her ankle. 

She’s drooling on him, her cunt is throbbing, clenching around the tasted thickness of his cock. Rolling his balls in the palm of her hand through the tight satin, nudging her finger up against that sweet spot that has him shaking and fucking her mouth harder. Maybe she wants him to come down her throat, she doesn’t know yet. 

“Oh fuck, fuck,” he gasps and pulls her off him. 

“No,” his voice strengthens, gathers that fire of his willpower. His hand tilting her jaw up, he looks down at her, firm chin and mouth and the perfect line of his nose. “No, I want to come in your cunt.”

As her brain shorts out, he grins bright and gleeful, and leans his arms on the edge of the bed either side of her. His mouth is very red, his eyes glitter blue. “How are you going to fuck me?”

“Like this,” she says coolly a few minutes later. He laughs up at her, flat on his back on the bed, and starts to moans when she starts to roll her hips, short and fast, setting a pace so merciless he can only grab her hips and hold on, his eyes shocky blue. She places one hand on his chest, aware that he’s watching her tits move as she rides him fast and hard. “I’m going to make you come,” she tells him, “I’m going to make you come so fucken hard. In me. Right up inside me.”

Because he’s such a fucking switch, they both are. And when she uses that tone on him, when she looks down at him a certain imperious way, he gets so jittery and excited he’ll try and thrust up into her, chasing their bliss. He fucks her back, the joy overtaking the slight roleplay, until they’re bound in shared delight, loving this, loving that they do this together. 

The undone ribbons are bouncing across his chest, and he lets go of her hips to grab at both ends, wrapping them around his fist. The knickers are crumpled in the sheets by his head. The smell of sex seems to fill the room, rich and hot and intimate. Blue edges to the lamplight, the cool silver song floating in from the other room. He’s gasping open-mouthed up at her, closer and closer, sweat on his collarbones, the blush of heat down the fair skin of his chest, the red ribbons stretched taut between them. 

She rakes the nails of one hand across his torso, and pinches his small pink nipple. Catches him so viciously -- his pain kink -- that he arches with a shout and comes endlessly, helplessly into her, eyes shut, cords standing in his throat. She imagines his spunk splattering up inside her, hot and wet, and it seizes her into a sweet long orgasm, making her fall forward onto his chest. His arms are around her, holding her through that shaking moaning pleasure. He’s murmuring something to her, she can’t hear, can’t see, only feel this perfect warmth and perfect endless moment.

They lie together in trembling silence for a long while. The song ends on a wistful note, and another begins in swirls and echoes. Lying on his chest, she remembers that it’s called something blue. Like his eyes. It’s such a silly sweet coincidence that she smiles, pressing her glee into his skin.

“Darling,” he says, his voice rumbling under her ear. 

“Mm?” she replies, ready to be cheeky back.

He rolls her off him and gets them lying face to face. He’s always so beautiful after they’ve fucked, she never knows if it’s because of the afterglow streaming through her or him. But his silver hair and pretty eyes and tender mouth are so attractive, so very dear when they’re cuddling like this. And her heart pulses warm with the knowledge of loving and being loved in return.

“Next year, my darling,” he tells her, “I’m going to tie you up with Christmas lights and fuck you and take pix of you all fucked out, and then fuck you again.”

Speechless, she stares at him. In the soft ivory and gold light, he quirks his brows and grins at her. “Would you like that?”

“Yes,” she manages. “Please. Thank you.”

He chuckles, leaning in to rub his nose against hers. Putting her arms around his neck, she holds him close and kisses him sweet and sweeter. Loving those helpless little sounds he makes as all the hard lines and bones of his body seem to melt into her. 

When they’re all cuddled up together and he’s stroking the long red satin ribbons tangled across them, she asks with some diffidence, “So, would you like your other secret present now?”

His whole body flinches, just as much terror as excitement. “Jesus, what! No, wait -- what -- I can’t --”

As she struggles to contain her giggles, he puts a hand over his eyes and then takes it down and says, “Look, can you give me an hour or so -- maybe two -- maybe tomorrow!”

Her laughter bursts out of her, loud and shaking her body. 

“You fucken,” he mutters and kisses her throat. “Don’t fucken laugh at me, that’s cruel.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she gasps, eyes streaming. “I’m not -- I swear, I don’t mean it like that.” As he sulks at her, his mouth all pouty, she kisses him in apology. “It’s okay, your other present doesn’t require you to fuck me.”

“Yeah, right,” he scoffs.

“Besides,” she says reasonably, “there are other ways -- you don’t have to use your --”

“Yes, yes,” he interrupts loudly, “what is it then, where is it?”

“Oh my god, rude bloody Arian.” She gets out of bed, gathering the red ribbons to tie them loosely over her front. Feeling him watch her as she goes to the chest of drawers, aware of all her nude flesh. The red heels have changed her posture, she feels it. All straight spine, sleek back and pert bottom. Really, she’d like to take the bra off but suspects he might just make her put it back on again because he’s like that. 

Sure enough, when she turns back to the bed, present in hand, he’s lying on his back, arms folded under his head, watching her with a lazy curl to his mouth, glimmering blue between his lashes. A naked beautiful man, long and bold, his arrogance like fine ivory layered on his skin. 

“You have glitter,” she murmurs, putting her knee on the bed and crawling up him, knowing how he loves that. Sure enough, his eyes go all hot, smouldering at her with that smug tipping smile as he touches her face. 

“Where?” he says low, tracing the under curve of her lips.

“Here.” She scoots down a little and licks a long soft stripe along the dip of his pelvis. A perfect dot of green sparkles on the point of his hipbone, and she licks back to it, breathing in the smell of his cock smeared with her come.

His hand smooths her hair, gentle and possessive. “I want my present.”

Without stopping, she brings it around and places the small wrapped box on his abdomen. Maybe it’s too soon to touch his cock. So she licks around it, watching as he spreads his legs with a little satisfied grunt and pulls at the wrapping paper.

“Oh my god!” He bolts upright in bed, forcing her to scramble fast out of the way. “Christmas fucken panties,” he yells happily. “Oh my god!” 

His stupid lovely face all wreathed in smiles, he tears open the tissue, spilling scraps of lace and satin across himself. She’s grabbed up in a hug and kissed noisily, again and again. “Christ, you’re wonderful,” he tells her as she blushes.

He’s all melty and delighted, hugging her with one arm as he sifts his free hand through the little heap. There’s a little red sequin hipster brief printed with white bells, a red satin pair with a pattern of colourful Christmas lights across the back, another with tiny white reindeer. They’re all gloriously tacky and, judging from his giggles, he loves them. 

“Well, you know,” she says. “Like I was going to buy myself Christmas lingerie and not get you some too.”

“Aww.” He kisses her cheek, soft and lingering, his joy like gold glitter all around her. 

And then goes very quiet when he sees the non-festive stuff. She bites the inside of her mouth, feeling the change go through him. This is exactly the reaction she’d anticipated. His arm slips from around her and he hunches a little as he picks up and examines the boxer briefs made entirely of lace. One in black, one in blue, and of course red.

“Fuck,” he says and looks up at her with wonder. “They’re so soft.”

“Mmm.” She crosses her leg over, props her elbow on her knee, chin on hand to watch this. How long is it going to take him to --

“I’m gunna,” he mutters and she grins to herself.

A few breathless contortions later, he’s upright on his knees, looking down, almost hesitant to touch himself. The boxer briefs are sheer with tiny bits of sparkle embedded in the curls and patterns of black lace, stretched over the pale flesh and bone of his hips. And it’s far too soon but she can see his cock stirring, all reddened and bunched up with his balls inside the fine fabric. Her own skin going hot, she knows when he glances over at her, his breathing ragged and needy.

She extends her fingers up over her chin, covering her lips as she gazes up at him. Knowing just how she looks with hair tousled across her forehead, and red satin ribbons spilling down her, sleek legs tucked to one side with the pointy red heels. “Would you like me to suck your cock?” 

It goes through him like a stutter. “Yes,” he chokes. “God, please, yes.” Hand out to her, blue eyes feverish and glittery, his mouth trembling a little.

“So beautiful,” she murmurs, stroking lightly over the sheer material, the heat of him coming through. 

“Fuck,” he pleads, touching her face, her mouth with shaking fingertips. She knows she shouldn’t tease him, that she should just give him what he wants, and she does want to because she feels his desperation. But at the same time --

She glances up at him, up the smooth paleness of his body gleaming with a little sweat. “Say it,” she tells him gently, “I want you to hear you say it.”

Because his voice goes all lush and growly when he’s like this, the sound so delicious it reverberates right through her. “Fuuuuccck,” he groans, “Yes, suck -- suck on me -- on my --” He takes in a deep breath, grips the back of her head, fingers in her hair and says down to her with clear awful precision. “Suck my cock. Suck my cock right fucken now.”

It swirls slippery heat all the way down inside her, squirming arousal. She grins and obeys but not immediately. First she licks him through the lace, soaking it til she can taste his flesh. Scrapes her tongue and teeth across it so he feels that friction. He lets out a ragged little cry that she loves immediately, and fucks his hips against her face, clearly wanting more of her mouth.

She eases the boxers down just enough to very carefully take out his cock. As he moans and swears above her, fingers tightening, as the song rises aching and howling through the bright air, she envelops him soft and slow in her mouth. He’s not going to get hard, they both know that, and that’s okay, this is enough. This agonised pleasure, this comfort and wet pleasure. Saliva on the black lace and sparkles, the smell of him deepening with pheromones and sweat, the smooth and heavy of him on her tongue, tasting him, tasting her own cunt on the delicate skin of his cockhead.

He comes in a soft groan, splurting a little warmth into her mouth. She swallows, a secret smile in the corner of her mouth, and licks him very carefully. His thighs are trembling, she knows he’s hunched over her, lips wet and parted. So she takes him down against the pillows and kisses him soft, cuddling him close.

“God, I fucken love you,” he says eventually. 

She laughs, her cheek against his hair. His hand covers her whole left breast, broad and blunt and so gentle. 

“Wait,” he pipes up, drawing back to frown at her. “Does this mean I can’t wear your panties anymore?”

She makes a face. “Don’t call them that, jesus.” 

He grins, so impudent because he knows how much she hates that word. And it is true, she did sort of half buy them so he wouldn’t keep stretching out her undies, especially the super expensive ones made all of lace. “Maybe,” she says reluctantly.

“Aw,” he pouts, his eyes sparkling glee. “That’s mean, I like wearing your --”

“Shut up,” she tells him, trying not to laugh. “Now we both have pretty things to wear. The more the better -- isn’t that what you’re always telling me?”

“Is it?” He looks astonished. 

She makes a grand gesture towards the bedroom door that’s meant to indicate the magnitude of his Christmas feast. “That! Was that not -- you’re like the reverse Kondo, you with your --”

He points his finger at her, brimming over with mirth because he knows exactly what she’s about to say. 

She struggles and fails, giggling. “-- excessive hedonism.” And bursts into laughter.

“Fuck you,” he tells her, his voice all tender with affection. 

They cuddle, happy to just be together as the music thrums through the late hour. He still has his lace briefs on, twisted low and definitely uncomfortable on his thighs. When she pushes at them, trying to help him, he makes an annoyed sound and knocks her hand away. “No, I’m not taking them off.”

“What, not ever?” she jokes as he pulls them up and winces a little when the fabric closes snug around him.

“Maybe,” he replies, a very silly defiant man who she decides deserves to be snogged. He responds with a certain eagerness, his big hands stroking up her curve of her spine and down to her bottom, squeezing her flesh with unabashed appreciation. 

“What, again?” she murmurs, half serious.

“Well,” he says smoothly, his eyes soft. “You did say there were other ways ...”

As she lets out a small laugh, he turns her onto her back, covering her body with his. “God, I love that,” she moans, twining her arms around his neck. Because he’s so long and lovely against her, his skin smooth and sticking a little to hers.

“Look at you, all beautiful and Christmassy,” he says, pulling back a little so he can arrange the ribbons to frame her torso. She smiles at him, tracing with her fingertip where his cheekbone starts the contour of his face, the elegant shape that tapers down to the corner of his fine mouth. Now he smiles back at her, hands clasping her sides, and lowers that mouth to her navel. She shivers, anticipating a precise line of kisses up.

But no, he runs his wet tongue all the way up the breathing curve of her ribcage and fastens his greedy mouth on the tip of her breast, blue eyes flicking up to see her reaction. “Oh fuck,” she gasps, grabbing a fistful of his hair. His mouth widens, curves up in a smile around her nipple as he sucks and sucks harder. 

It makes her want to be fucked again, he knows that damned well, knows from the way she spreads her legs and pushes her hips up against him. She knows he knows. So she grabs his wrist and moves his hand where she wants it.

He laughs, a goddamned tease, but his fingers slide into her, working her sweet and steady until she’s whimpering and twisting, being fucked and sucked until she comes in loud arching shameless cries.

“There,” he comes up to murmur against her gasping mouth. “Better?”

She can only cling to him, sharing breath as her thundering heart slows. I love you, don’t leave me, she wants to say but chokes the words back at the last moment. Because it’s stupid and insecure and he’s never given any indication of wanting to leave. She calms herself, focusing on kissing his soft thin mouth, sucking on that spot where his upper lip juts out. If he senses her agitation, all he does is stroke her through her comedown.

“Love you,” he murmurs, quiet and thoughtful this time, a different kind of sincerity. She smiles at him, the words melting through her, emotion rising up and up to meet him. He’s here, they’re together, everything is safe and beautiful. “Love you,” she replies softly.

“Also,” she adds a few minutes later, poking his chest. “Might I just point out? Whimsy.”

“What?” he asks, his eyes laughing.

“I just proved that I am totally capable of it. With this,” she indicates the red ribbon bra, “and the -- can I take this off now, please?”

“Yes, you may,” he says nobly and helps her undo the heels too, throwing them off the edge of the bed.

“And the special festive undies and the --” She pokes him again in the chest. “Fucken whimsy, mate!”

He chuckles, all crinkly eyes and curving mouth like an adorable puppy, and pulls her back to lie in his arms. “Quite right, quite right. Loads of fucken whimsy. I take it all back. Not that I can even remember saying it.”

“Ha!” She doesn’t entirely believe him.

He reaches above him to turn the bedside lamp off. The room becomes all soft summer moonlight and blue shadows again. From the next room, that sweet Church song begins, the one that makes her think of continents cuddling like they are. The southerly rushes up the sandstone cliffs of the coast, bringing that cool change across the sex rich heat of their bed. The distant scent of jasmine, and much closer the faded perfume of her peonies and blush suede. Lying on his chest, she listens to the thump of his heartbeat, lets her lashes drift down as she sends her consciousness inside herself to locate her own. 

Their heartbeats don’t match, not right away. But as his fingers sift through her hair, as they breathe together and listen to that endlessly charming melody, the two throblines somehow slow and come together.

Her mouth curving, she raises her head and tells him softly, “Our hearts are beating in time with the song.”

He looks startled, and then his face softens with that sweet lopsided smile, the blue of his eyes glimmering cobalt in this shade of a Sydney night. As she watches him, thinking how she could watch him forever, he strokes down the curve of her cheek, looking with that subtle happiness at the shapes of her face. She doesn’t ask, merely turns her mouth a little to kiss his fingertips. He smiles slow and tender at her, his long fine mouth quirking, having clearly decided something.

“Next year,” he says, his voice low and secret.

“Mm?”

“Next year Melbourne.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading all the way through this behemoth of a fic that I absolutely had to write!
> 
> There are so many song references in this fic I feel maybe I ought to provide a reference list for people who would like to know. Because yes, I am one of those maddening writers who cringes at naming songs in fic but cannot resist quoting or describing them. And yes, I made a private playlist that probably drove my neighbours mad for the space of a whole month. So here goes:
> 
>  _I'll Be Home For Christmas_ , the Dean Martin or Doris Day versions  
>  _The Christmas Song (Merry Christmas To You)_ , the Nat King Cole version  
>  _Let It Snow! Let It Snow!_ , the Doris Day version  
>  _It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year_ , the Andy Williams version  
>  _Merry Christmas, Darling_ , The Carpenters  
>  _How To Make Gravy_ , Paul Kelly  
>  _All I Want For Christmas Is You_ , Mariah Carey  
>  _What Christmas Means To Me_ , Stevie Wonder  
>  _Rocking Around The Christmas Tree_ , Brenda Lee is what they do the jive to, jsyk  
>  _Winter Wonderland_ , Dean Martin  
>  _Thank God It's Christmas_ , Queen  
>  _Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas_ , the Ella Fitzgerald version although **Meet Me In St Louis** is really where the original by Judy Garland comes from  
>  _It Still Feels Like Christmastime To Me_ , Lee Kernaghan  
>  _Merry Christmas Baby_ , Otis Redding  
>  _Driving Home For Christmas_ , Chris Rea  
>  _Silver Bells_ , the Doris Day version  
>  _Honeyman_ , Tim Buckley  
>  _To Her Door_ , Paul Kelly -- yes, I had to  
>  _Under The Milky Way_ , The Church  
>  _Magician Among The Spirits_ , The Church  
>  _Cobalt Blue_ , The Church  
>  _Chaos_ , The Church is the aching howling song  
>  _Pangaea_ , The Church is the cuddling continents one
> 
> Yep. Music. So damned important to the writing process.
> 
> Full disclosure: I totally made up the room accomodation at Blue Hills Stone Barns, that doesn't exist.
> 
> A lot of these images and ideas come from [lackinprivacy](https://lackinprivacy.tumblr.com/). Thank christ for good sexy Tumblrs.
> 
> In case you need help picturing the lace boxer briefs, [this might work](https://48wearyandthin.tumblr.com/post/168817802051/nickfolio-calum-winsor-for-gregg-homme).
> 
> And I sent a pic of the [red satin bow set](https://www.adoreme.com/gynger) to vell1chor, saying how very tempted I was to buy it for fic research purposes, and she was like “picturing ben in those panties rn” so of course I had to. Is not my fault. You know who to blame.


End file.
